


Brother's Keeper

by Jackfan2



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-06-04 07:11:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 83,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6647503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackfan2/pseuds/Jackfan2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is said a genuine friend is the one who stands by your side in times of trouble. Porthos and Aramis are more than friends, they are brothers. Trouble behaves accordingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my beta's, Natty, aka Adrenalineshots @ AO3 and my best friend on this planet, and Sue Pokorny, writing phenom and another whom I'm blessed to know and call friend. You all may thank me later for introducing them to the BBC Musketeers show; you have been on the receiving end of many a great fic from their skilled, deft hands as a result. So I'll be expecting many cookies in the mail, just so you know ;)
> 
> All kidding aside, these gals kept me rocking along, though I did my dead-level best to stop, to quit and give up. And they would not have it! An now YOU have the result of it. I thank them both sincerely. And if there is anything good to read within this chapter and those to follow, it is due to them and their inspiration, and quite possibly their (loving) nagging. Okay, and perhaps a bit to Santiago Cabrera for such a lovely turn at Aramis. Be still my heart.
> 
> If I had to give this story a timeline, I'd say it transpires mid to late season 1.

**Brother's Keeper**

**Chapter 1**

The small village came into view and Porthos sagged in the saddle with relief. In contrast, Aramis scowled at his friend before locking his gaze on the assortment of ram-shackled buildings.

"See?" the larger man reached out and smacked the marksman across the arm playfully. "What'd I tell you, huh?"

Aramis merely shrugged. "Yes, yes," he sighed, not at all impressed with the sight before him. "The old traveler was right." He gave Porthos a defeated smile before waving magnanimously before him. "Lead on."

Porthos chuckled before urging his mount onward, while the marksman hung back. Leaning back slightly, Aramis glanced at the large moon over head and came to the conclusion there may yet be hope. It would provide a good deal of light in the coming hours, perhaps enough to continue their journey…

“Well?” Porthos called. "You going to sit there stargazing all night?"

Jarred from his musing, Aramis looked at his waiting friend and gave a chagrined smile. He dug his heels into his mount and once caught up with the big man, they rode into the center of town together, their horse’s hooves the only noise in an eerily quiet village. A small boy appeared next to the open doors of a livery and Aramis tipped his hat, adopting a friendly smile. The youth did not return his greeting, his face remaining impassive at best. Unwelcome at worst.

"What mission is this again?" Porthos groaned as he stepped from the saddle. He gripped the small of his back and stretched, grimacing at the sound of cracking bones.

"Third, fourth…" Aramis sighed tiredly as he too dismounted. "I'm not sure I know anymore."

In truth, it was their third mission in a fortnight and Aramis knew so, with the utmost certainty. He suspected Porthos knew as well, but both were loath to give voice to the truth. Thinking on it too much brought to the forefront the numerous aches and pains they wished desperately to forget.

It had been a rough few weeks. With so many of the Musketeer regiment plagued by sickness, it had fallen on the healthier men to cover all the duties for which a full regiment was normally accountable. It was to that end that Porthos and Aramis found themselves leagues from home after yet another mission, their horses' heads hanging low, equally in need of rest.

More than once on their journey, Aramis' thoughts turned toward home for an entirely different reason. Amongst the sick, Athos and d'Artagnan had succumbed to the ailment and the marksman could not shake the visions of their feverish battles from his mind.

They were more than a day past due for their return to the Garrison, and while that in and of itself should have favored Aramis' earlier argument to push through the night and gain Paris sooner, Porthos' dissent proved victorious. An easy victory when their mounts continually stumbled and Aramis himself had nearly fallen asleep in his saddle once or twice.

"God," Porthos grumbled suddenly. "What a sorry place this is."

Lost in thoughts of their friends, Aramis hadn't really given the place more than a cursory glance. Curious now, he stepped away from his horse and turned in a circle, surveying their surroundings more thoroughly.

While not unaccustomed to the occasional overnight in a less than perfect out of the way village, this one appeared more backwater and bedraggled than most. There were only a few buildings and those that dotted the late evening landscape, were rundown in varying degrees of disrepair, including the abysmal hovel that passed as an inn and tavern, otherwise known as their lodgings. Save for the deplorable appearance, it was at least inhabited, if the low light that managed to eke out from the filthy windows was any indicator.

"That, mon frère," Aramis finally added, "is an insult to the countless dreary places we've stayed to this point. Though, not by much."

"Take your horse for you, monsieur?"

Aramis blinked in surprise and looked down.

The young stable boy who'd watched them ride into town, stood a short distance away, hand outstretched, and waiting patiently. Covered in what the marksman hoped was only dirt, he could not have been more than twelve years, and smelled strongly of manure. Most notably, in the youth's other hand were the reins of Porthos' mount, its rider already several paces away, staring tiredly at the marksman.

"Come on, then," Porthos canted his head toward the waiting stable attendant. "Give'im your horse and let's be off." Eyes locked on the tavern, he clapped his hands together and rubbed them in eager anticipation. "I'm ready for a meal I didn't have to catch, skin and cook. And a bed that doesn't resemble rocky ground."

Aramis looked again at the lad but made no move to relinquish his mount. In fact, he gripped his reins tighter and found himself incapable of moving. The boy canted his head in question and the Musketeer offered him a pained, apologetic grin.

"Aramis…"

The marksman looked up quickly; Porthos had stopped at the steps to the inn and was now staring at him.

Porthos threw his hands up and out to his sides. "What are you waitn' for?"

Aramis shifted nervously. "You know," he moved determinedly toward his friend, feeling less certain than he sounded. "It's still early. If we pushed on—" he held up a staying hand when Porthos mouth drew to a tight line, "at a slower pace to spare the horses— we could be in Paris by early evening tomorrow."

Porthos' face fell. "Not again…" he sighed and looked down to the ground. His hands planted on his hips, he waited a beat before meeting his friend's gaze. "Aramis, we agreed. First village we came to—"

"Village," Aramis scoffed. "This hardly qualifies." The marksman gestured widely. "And I agreed under duress." He shook a finger at him. "Besides, we're already overdue at the Garrison. Treville will be worried."

"Worried…" Porthos echoed and watched Aramis quietly. The man had the most inscrutable gaze; it was unnerving and it was all Aramis could do to hold it.

"Yes." Aramis nodded, unable to stand the silent stare any longer. "Treville will be worried."

Finally, the darker man rolled his eyes and walked up to his friend, that damnable forthrightness exposing the marksman for the fake he was. "This isn't about Treville so stop pretending."

Aramis looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about," he faltered, still not meeting his friend's gaze. There was one thing he could never do— look Porthos in the eye and lie.

Porthos leaned to the side and caught his friend's eye. "This is about d'Artagnan and Athos." Aramis blinked peevishly at him, and the dark skinned Musketeer had the audacity to chuckle. "You're a mother hen, you know that?"

"I just—" Aramis sighed in frustration and, releasing his horse's' reins, strode away a few steps before he stopped and slapped his hat against his leg. A thick plume of dust billowed into the evening light. "I don't like leaving them in the hands of that so-called _healer_." His face soured at the word. "He's far too quick with his leeches for my tastes."

"I don't disagree with you there," Porthos nodded thoughtfully. "I miss having them along, too, you know." He shook his head, his gaze distant. "Don't feel right."

While these missions had been relatively easy – delivery of important papers and such – the time spent on the road was enough to wear on even the strongest of men. Normally, with Athos and d'Artagnan accompanying them, the long journeys were bearable. It wasn't as if he was growing tired of Porthos' comforting presence, but Aramis found himself missing Athos' dry wit and d'Artagnan's insatiable curiosity.

"Exactly," Aramis nodded triumphantly.

"However," Porthos continued and Aramis felt hope begin to crumble. "If you recall, they were on the mend when last we left, in fact most of the men were. Probably have a full regiment by the time we return."

Aramis could not argue that. "I suppose…"

"The Captain's used to us being a bit late by now. Our mission is done," he continued, gazing beseechingly at Aramis, damn his hide... "The horses are too, and we aren't in much better shape. We need to rest."

Aramis studied the larger man, noting the circles under his eyes, the uncharacteristic slump in his shoulders, and remembered the sound of his back cracking only moments ago. Not one to take account of his own aches and pains, Aramis could, however, see the truth of his words for Porthos' sake.

"You're probably right," he sighed, giving in reluctantly. "I don't suppose it'll do much good to return too tired to be of any use."

Porthos' smile of relief was infectious. "Exactly," he said, clapping Aramis on the back.

Aramis gathered up the reins of his horse and walked the animal back over to where the boy waited. He smiled down at the boy and reached into a pocket inside his doublet. "I'm afraid I must know the name of the person to whom I'm entrusting my horse." He bent down and held up a coin for the boy to see. "I make it a point to never see him in the care of strangers."

The boy gave a quick nod. "Indeed, sir. My name's Sébastien. My uncle," he pointed at the Inn. "He runs the place and I take care of the horses."

Aramis looked to the tavern and back to the youth. "I see. Well then, Sébastien," he placed the coin in the boy's outstretched hand then the reins over the top of it. "See that they get extra grain and if you have a mind, tell mine a story. He'll steady all the more for the sound of a kind voice."

The youth looked hesitantly at the animal then to the coin in his hand. "I... don't know any stories."

Aramis closed the boy's hand over the coin, reassuring him the money would remain. "Then polite conversation is acceptable, yes?"

"I can do that," Sébastien offered, tucking the coin in his pocket. Without further comment, he turned to lead their mounts away.

Aramis watched them go until they disappeared into the livery. Once again, something he could not name seemed off.

"Come on then," Porthos rumbled, dropping an arm heavily across Aramis' shoulder. "Lets get inside," he said guiding his friend across the courtyard and toward the Inn. "I am starved!"

Aramis chuckled, studying his companion with a sidelong glance; while looking no less tired, he at least appeared far less heavy hearted, and that alone was enough to lift the marksman's spirits. "Is that ever not the case?" he asked as they came to the stairs that led to the front door of the tavern.

"A big man has a big appetite."

They groaned in unison as they climbed, enthusiasm tempered by sore, achy muscles.

When they reached the top step, Aramis sighed. "I suppose a warm meal would be nice. And a hot bath perhaps."

Porthos grumbled in agreement. "A meal and a bed," he nodded, looking up. "See there," he pointed at a sign above the door, "they have proper rooms, not just a cot of straw in the back. I bet you that there's even proper beds too!"

Aramis looked up and shrugged under the weight of Porthos' arm. "And proper bed lice, most likely."

It was Porthos' turn to look sour. "You do know how to spoil a good mood," he murmured. "Doesn't matter. I'm so tired I don't care if I have to sleep in the stable with the horses. Either way, on the morrow, we'll be back on the road with rested mounts. Probably reach Paris before nightfall."

Aramis nodded, content with his fellow Musketeers assessment of their continued journey. He inclined his head, allowing Porthos to take the lead and followed as the big man pulled open the door. The dank odor of cheap spirits, sweat and dust immediately assaulted their senses, a pungent reminder of human contact after so many days surrounded by nothing but trees and birds.

The door closed behind them and the Musketeers stopped to survey the interior, noting with feigned nonchalance the several pairs of eyes affording them the same scrutiny. Some glanced with passing interest, others still with something Aramis could not quite put his finger on, but it was slightly less than welcoming.

Regardless, the ambiance was warm and inviting, a fire crackling in a stone hearth in one corner of the room kept the cold at bay, and the smell of stale alcohol hung in the air like an old friend. There were few patrons in the great room, an intense game of cards in one corner and in the other— oh. A pretty brunette was bent over cleaning a table.

Pretty indeed. That changed things considerably, especially when she met Aramis' gaze.

Even in the dim light, her beauty was in evidence. Undeniably pretty, though a bit on the thin side, her eyes were kind and friendly. She smiled at Aramis and the Musketeer returned the favor. Yes, luck might well be with him after all, at least for tonight.

"Seriously?"

Aramis reared back and blinked at Porthos, the picture of innocence. "What?"

Porthos huffed. "We only just got here and already you've got…" he looked around the dimly lit room, "the only female within view in your sights."

Aramis smiled and clapped Porthos on the shoulder. "Lady Luck smiles upon me this night."

"She would be a _she_ , wouldn't she…," Porthos grumbled. But it wasn't long before he too spied something that caught his eye; a card game in the opposite corner of the room. "But then," he said with more levity, "she might be smiling at me as well."

Aramis noted the game of chance and chuckled. "Well, my friend," he began as they moved into the room, both with completely different targets in mind. "You take your lady, and I'll take mine."

Without further comment, they parted; Porthos strode confidently toward the table in the right corner of the room, while Aramis sauntered up to the bar. "Two ales," he ordered and turned to watch Porthos take the offer to join the game before catching the eye of the young woman he'd spied earlier. She was cleaning a table in the opposite corner but lifted her face to smile demurely at him. "And whatever the young lady drinks."

A loud thunk from the bar and Aramis turned to see three ale's awaiting him. He promptly reached for them when a hand came down on his, stopping him. Aramis glanced from the hand to its owner- the man behind the bar.

The barkeep leaned in. "You and your friend," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "you'd be wise to mount and ride on from here."

Aramis felt the hair on the back of his neck stir but he schooled his face to remain passive. "And why would we do that, hmm?" He offered a disarming grin. "We only just arrived at your lovely establishment." He waved at the room, the action giving him a chance to view the occupants at the card table. "Now," he leaned in, lowering his voice. "Why would we heed your suggestion?"

The barkeep opened his mouth to say more when his gaze suddenly shifted up and behind Aramis. The man's features instantly shuttered, countenance going from cautious to closed off in the span of a heartbeat. He stepped away from the bar and turned his back on the Musketeer, either no longer in a talking mood, or someone behind them had warned the man off.

Aramis fumbled for his coin bag, using this moment to scout the room's occupants more closely. Gaze moving lazily from the girl to the card table, he realized one of the players at the table, a big man, equal in size to Porthos, with shockingly red hair, was glaring coldly in his direction, though not at him. When the marksman nodded, Red sneered and dropped his gaze back to his cards.

Filing the oddity away for the moment, Aramis fished out a coin and placed it on the bar. "That should be enough for the drinks," he drawled easily, looking at the barman, "and two rooms for the night, if you have them."

The barkeeper's face fell, eyes shifting again to the table where Porthos now sat dealing from a deck of cards, then back again. He nodded curtly before gathering up the coin and turning away.

Aramis bowed slightly, then gathered up the tankards and moved to give Porthos his drink. "What a thoroughly wonderful man," he murmured sarcastically, weaving his way to where Porthos sat. Surely God would not see fit to test them after such a long month. Just one night. Was that too much to ask? Still, Aramis knew life was rarely fair, and stored the moment away as cause to remain vigil.

Cards dealt, the game was once more in full swing by the time he reached the table. With Porthos' back to him, Aramis reached over his friend's shoulder and placed a drink before him. "Do try not to lose too badly, mon ami." Porthos did not lose, Aramis knew that. It was a message; stay alert. The dark skinned Musketeer stiffened a little, the movement imperceptible to the others. "I prefer not to be the sole financier of the remainder of our journey to Paris."

Porthos chuckled. "What is it your book says, 'ye of little faith'?"

"Oh I've plenty of faith, my friend." He glanced over his shoulder; the girl was waiting by the corner table and he nodded in her direction, a slow smile belying the undercurrent of tension he felt in the room. "In fact," he straightened and adjusted the remaining drinks in his hands. "I think I shall test it right now."

Soon, their night was alight with equal parts warm and willing flesh wriggling in Aramis' lap, and Porthos' bawdy laughter as his eyes glinted behind a fresh hand of cards, and a rather large mound of cash in his keep. He was already up fifteen livre and judging by the way this lot played, would soon be up more.

While their night had, thus far, passed without incident, the bar-keep's constant gazes at the card game in the opposite corner, continued to prove worrisome. But then, as the young girl sitting casually on his lap, wiggled against his groin and other parts of him took notice, well, Aramis considered dismissing the man as just naturally edgy and retiring to his room, with company.

"Your friend should be careful," she murmured, her gaze, not for the first time, straying across the room and the card game participants. Also not for the first time, the red haired man seated across from Porthos, glared angrily back.

"Ah," Aramis breathed and placed another soft kiss on Colette's neck before stealing a glance in the same direction. "Now you sound like the barkeep."

"Renard?" She glanced sharply at the man behind the counter before relaxing beneath his lips. "He is a good man."

"Yes, but I have no interest in him," Aramis teased, sliding his hands suggestively along her hips. "I rather prefer your company."

Colette sighed beneath his attentions. "And I prefer to know the more about a man I'm to keep… company with on such a cold and lonely evening."

Aramis kissed one exposed shoulder. "That sounds promising. Lets see," he propped his chin on that same shoulder, "you already know my name, my preference in wine and women… and come morning, my friend and I will be gone. There. That's four things you know about me. Anything more seems superfluous, don't you think?"

"Oh, no, not to me. Your sword, for instance." She glanced at his weapons belt where it lay on the table. Reaching out one dainty hand, she fingered the length of the scabbard, moving it enticingly up the leather to trace the intricate metal scrolling of the palm guard. "I don't think I've seen one so ornate before. Makes a girl think you're some kind of prince or something."

Aramis chuckled and gently removed her hand from the weapon, disguising the curiosity he felt at the odd turn in their conversation by bringing the hand to his mouth and placing a soft kiss to her palm. "I assure you, I am no prince. But I do know how to make a woman feel like a queen."

Colette giggled, the hand she'd been resting on his shoulder now moving sensually around the outside of his ear. Aramis shivered in response. "I like the sounds of that. Bet you say that to every woman you meet."

"I do," Aramis turned and looked at her with a sincerity that stole Colette's breath. "I believe every woman should be made to feel like royalty," he tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. "Women are thought of as inferior and that I simply cannot abide. God created man and woman and he does not do inferior."

"But the priests justify it, saying God made women second. After man."

Aramis smiled and she felt her heart lift. "To be her protector, not her better."

"Her protector" she scoffed. "Truly not all men see women through the eyes of your God."

There it was. The sound of pain; of a woman abused. He carefully placed his hands gently on either side of her face and turned her to look at him. "And the man who has taught you this lesson, he is here?" Probably unintentionally, her eyes slid over to where the card game continued. "Is he in that card game? You keep looking over there."

"Just worried about your friend is all." She pulled back and he let her go easily. "And you," she added, her gaze sincere if for only a moment before shuttering. "See, I've grown quite fond of your handsome face. It'd be a shame to see it ruined."

"Ruined?" Aramis brow furrowed and he leaned back to study the men surrounding Porthos. "By those four?" He placed a hand over his heart and feigned injury. "Your faith in me is astounding."

"All men are born cocky, are they not?" she purred and reached a hand inside his shirt, fingers dancing enticingly over his flesh, fluttering over heated skin, brushing against an old musket ball scar. "Or… You a good fighter or something?"

Aramis eyes closed. God that felt good. "Or something," he said swallowing a groan.

"Mmm," she hummed, dipping lower. "So firm. Bet you're _firm_ all over."

Aramis could not help but smile. She was really quite bad at this. "I'm firm where it counts," he purred, gazing at her through half-lidded eyes. Two could play at this game.

"You've the muscle of a man used to fending for himself. And your friend… is he a fighter too?"

The marksman grimaced. "My dear," he took her hand, holding it still, "has no one ever told you not to discuss another when attempting to woo a man? It's bad form. A mood killer."

She actually blushed, removing her hand slowly from within his shirt. "I just thought," she glanced at his pistol where it sat next to his sword belt. "All those weapons, the fancy uniform. You and your friend must be soldiers of some sort."

"Why," he asked, grabbing the hand that moments ago had been rubbing delicious circles on his skin and caressed the top of it with his thumb. "Are you in need of defending?" It was said with an air of coy but also with as much sincerity as he could manage. "If those men over there-"

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that discussing others while attempting to woo a girl was in bad form?"

Aramis smiled. "Touché." She was getting the hang of this, whatever _this_ was. "Still, I am quite certain my friend and I can lend assistance if you should require it, without damaging my handsome face too much."

Colette threaded her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him forward until their foreheads were pressed together. "It's not those four who worry me," she whispered, her words ringing true for the first time since she sat on his lap. "It's the other forty besides you should worry about."

"Forty?" Aramis pulled back studying the girl for any exaggeration or untruth. This night was taking on a decidedly different tone. "That _is_ a lot of men, although I do not see them here."

"They remain unseen until their master wishes them otherwise," she said into his ear. "And by then, it is too late, trust me."

"Their master…" Aramis whispered back, his words little more than a soft wind against the skin of her neck. "And yours?"

The tavern girl jerked back, real fear making her eyes wide and teary.

"Easy…" he reassured. It was the only answer that Aramis required to know whose mouth was behind her odd questioning. "You don't know me but you may trust me as well, mademoiselle. Tell me of the master of this wretched place."

Colette licked her lips, a nervous gesture rather than seductive. Her eyes flickered towards the game table once more. "Fancy white shirt, the one wearing too much lace."

Aramis studied him a moment. He did indeed appear to be prosperous. "I presume he is a man of means to have so many at his disposal. Is he a trader, a merchant perhaps?"

Colette shrugged. "He is a man not to be trifled with and his thugs are an extension of his cruelty." A deep shiver ran through her body and she shook it off. With that shiver, so went her newfound honesty. "They do not matter," she feigned indifference and turned in his arms, staring down at him softly. "We can do more enjoyable things, I think." One small hand pushed aside his hair and she began trailing kisses around his ear. "No?" she whispered.

"But why...oh," his eyes rolled and he lost focus when her hands once more dove beneath the fabric of his shirt. God, she really, _really_ needed to keep still… before he changed his mind and left Porthos to fend for himself. "Colette, you make this conversation exceedingly difficult."

"And you'd rather talk, I suppose," she cooed and began a rather delightful wiggling, pressing hard against his groin. Aramis choked back a groan. "You sure about that?"

"Chéri…" he sighed, knowing this would go nowhere, despite his desires.

Aramis sighed. It was one thing to enjoy the company of a willing woman, whether such company involved the exchange of coin or not. It was another entirely when he was made aware that the woman was, perhaps, not as willingly a participant as she was trying to convince him. And Colette was trying very, very, hard.

And just as quickly her mood changed when once more when she heard one of the men at the card game call for more drinks. The voice did not belong to Porthos. Aramis turned to see the red haired man motion to the barkeeper before looking again at Colette.

Placing a hand beneath her chin he tilted her head up, her eyes to meet his. "Who is that man, Colette? Why does he frighten you so, ma petit?"

In truth, she was terrified, evidenced in how the question alone left her body tense, her back rigid. Torn between pressing for truth and offering comfort, he drew her in gently, protectively, hoping to instill a sense of safety to loosen her tongue. She went willingly but stole a look in the direction of the players across the room.

"His name is Geroux," she said tremulously.

Aramis turned her in his arms, shielding her from their gaze. "And he has hurt you?"

"Only when _he_ lets him." She sniffed, a tear sliding out from beneath the lashes of her closed lids and trailed down her cheek, another soon following.

"Who?"

"The fancy one. He owns this town."

"Well," Aramis smiled disarmingly in an attempt to allay her fears, "considering there isn't but half a town to own, that's not saying much."

Having long ago sized up those surrounding Porthos at the table, he knew trouble when he saw it—and while trouble did not bother him, if this man indeed had what amounted to a small army and was well connected… "And the owner of the town, does he have a name?"

Colette wiped at her tears and sat up. "He is the Marquis d'Évreux."

Aramis eyes widened. "A Marquis' no less. Interesting." He cast a disparaging glance at the card table. "Not one favored by the king, I would say, to choose a tavern over court."

Colette's brow furrowed, taking in his words. Her searched him slowly, traveling over the weapons on the table, his duvet then stopping on the pauldron next to his sword. "The King... you… you work for him, don't you?"

It was the naked terror in her voice that gave Aramis pause. It was one thing for her to fear for her life and those she held dear and doing whatever was needed to keep them safe; it was quite another for her to show that kind of emotion for a complete stranger, to react so strongly to any possible association with the King.

It made sense now. Isolated from the King's knowledge, the Marquis saw to his own sick desires, felt himself ruler in his own right, keeping those who would see folly in it at bay with a small army of men loyal only to him. One such as he would indeed kill any who sought to take word to the palace of such treasonous self-appointed reign.

This was a dangerous situation and Aramis was beginning to feel more than a little exposed. If the king knew of a member of court who behaved in such a way...

"If we were to withdraw," he began with great difficulty because it galled him to no end to shrink from a fight. But if she was right and there were indeed forty men, they would never make it back to Paris to warn the king. "Would you be safe?"

Colette did not answer. Instead she gazed at him curiously. "A soldier," she eyed the pauldron, one of her fingers tracking the indentation slowly. "You're a Musketeer," she whispered anxiously.

"YOU CHEAT!"

TBC... 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just remember, beta's are your life's blood when writing. Hug them often, feed them well, and never, ever forget to thank them. Adrenalineshots really helped sort the end of this out to be far better than it was, and Sue got everything in between.

**Chapter 2**

 

It was early dusk in Paris, just after evening repast and another day was nearing its end. Deep within the garrison walls, Treville, resplendent in full uniform, lit the wick of the remaining lamp station and stood back to watch the flame flicker to life, its dim glow standing like a sentry waiting to usher in the coming night. Satisfied it would remain alight, he blew out the flame on the stick he'd used and handed it to a man nearby and smiled his thanks.

Athos, having only just made his way from his room for evening meal, was unsure if the captain was coming or going for the night. Like all the other, healthier men, Treville had taken on duties beneath his rank, and he looked tired, though he'd never once faltered in his care for his men.

The Captain paid many visits to him when he'd been at his most impaired, a simple gesture that spoke more than a thousand words of comfort. Since Athos' recovery, others had said the same. It was that kind of leadership that inspired fierce loyalty and brotherhood within their ranks. Not a man among them would hesitate to lay down his life for their Captain if need be. It was a burden of command that Treville took very seriously and with humility.

Now this. Lighting lamps for the coming night. A great captaincy reduced to menial tasks normally assigned to others when he'd no doubt had other weightier duties heft upon him, as a result of this damnable sickness that spread through their ranks. They were only fortunate that everyone was on the mend and they'd not lost a soul to its ravages. It was a pity Paris could not say the same, but at least things were getting better there, too.

Athos sighed and glared down at his not quite empty bowl, swirling the spoon in the last dregs of his meal without enthusiasm. Like all of the recently recovered, it wasn't the slowly returning appetite that galled him as much as the lingering malaise. It was a struggle to recall details of the last two weeks, and much of that he blamed on whatever damn medicine the physician had dosed him with — and the leeches, God, those fucking leeches — he'd missed Aramis all the more during those moments when he'd been too weak to defend himself from their suckling mouths.

Neither Aramis nor Porthos were present in the courtyard, he noted as he scanned the faces around him. Not that he'd expected them to be. In fact, none of the healthy men who'd been pulling double and triple duty were around. Just those in varying degrees of recovery.

As much as he missed his friends, the sight of so many up and about… it was a good sign. He counted perhaps a dozen of his brethren finally able to venture out amongst the healthy and living. With evening falling now, they gathered in clusters, some conversing quietly, while others, those more like himself sat alone and quiet, still trying to get past the weakness.

Athos yawned and immediately bit down on the gesture and scrubbed a fist into his eyes.

Like the rest of the recently recovered, the lingering malaise seemed hardest to overcome. It was like a cloud over his mind and once quickly responsive muscles seemed unwilling to lend him their full usefulness. Regaining one's physical strength seemed to be harder than it ought to be.

"Well, you're looking a damn sight better than last I saw you."

The swordsman looked over his shoulder and gazed fondly at Serge. The old cook stood with the pot of stew in one hand, a ladle in the other. "Thank you, and I  _do_ feel better," he offered reassuringly. "It's just this," he gestured aimlessly, "this annoying fatigue that haunts me still. One would think two weeks of bed-rest would suffice," he bit out wearily.

"You're not the only one." The cook looked around and Athos followed his gaze. "They're all still gathering their strength, as should you. Give it time."

Many of the regiment who'd taken ill over the last two weeks were up and about, but their feet dragged across the compound, many as recently returned as Athos himself, still in a bit of a fog and not back to full stride.

"How much time?" Athos grumbled, rubbing at his forehead, a dull ache throbbing within. "I've been shot, stabbed, lost more blood than was healthy and each time was up and around faster than this." He shook his head. "Perhaps age is catching up to me…"

"Easy boy," Serge warned, his tone affable. "I'm a good bit older than most of you and that malady held no sway on me."

Athos chuckled. "Indeed." He nodded and looked at the cook, eyes twinkling mirthfully. "You will most assuredly outlive us all, good man."

The old cook colored and set down the pot to grab a pitcher on a table behind them. "I don't think the almighty knows quite what to do with me," he said with a grin. "So he keeps me here to annoy you young folk."

"You do us a great service, Serge. Never under value that.  _We_  do not. Most assuredly."

"Well," Serge set the pitcher down, a bit flustered at the compliment. "You're up and about and not a moment too soon." His countenance took on a more serious tone. "The others have had an arduous time pulling double duty and all."

Athos felt a wave of guilt wash over him. It was not his fault he and many of the others had fallen ill, but knowing the healthier Musketeers had labored on their behalf was not only humbling but galling. Not accustomed to letting others pull his load, he decided that he and the rest of the recently recovered would find a way to make it up to them somehow.

"Indeed." He looked at the cook. "On that note, when was the last time you saw Porthos and Aramis?"

"Supper, four—" the old cook stopped suddenly and thought a moment. "No, five days past. They was headin' out early the next mornin', south to Orleans, somethin' 'bout some letters from the King. Those two," he shook his head, "well, I seen more life in a corpse. Worn to a frazzle, plain as day."

Athos turned in his seat and stared down into his cup. "I'm sure," he gritted in frustration.

"Looks like somebody's got his feet steady," Serge commented.

Athos looked up in time to see a very annoyed d'Artagnan striding purposefully toward him. This did not look like good news, though as anxious as the young Musketeer had been to return to full duty and having stated as much to Treville only to be denied countless times, it really could be anything.

Truly, the Captain had been right in his denial. While the boy'd been first to bounce out of his sick bed two days ago, he was still too gaunt for the physician's liking — not a hefty young man to begin with, the loss of even an extra pound was a concern — and, while d'Artagnan had done his best to hide it, he too was in possession of that same malaise that they'd all succumbed to post-illness. However, much of it looked to have dissipated today and damn if he seemed to possess more strength in his limbs than Athos did. It was a trifle annoying, the resiliency of youth.

"Did you hear?" d'Artagnan stopped at the table and placed his hands down on the surface, leaning in. The boy radiated a palpable energy that Athos was not at all sure he had the intestinal fortitude to deal with at the moment. The young musketeer glanced at Serge who turned and shuffled off into the kitchen.

Athos fought to keep from rolling his eyes. "d'Artagnan, if this is about you being declared fit for active duty—"

"Aramis and Porthos are overdue from their last mission."

Athos stilled. "By how much?"

"Almost two days."

It wasn't necessarily unlike them to return late from a mission and at any other time, Athos would have shrugged it off, they all would have. But given the amount of extra duty, the close proximity of recent missions before this one, it was more than a little unsettling. Apparently the young Gascon felt the same. He shifted anxiously from one foot to the other, eager for some kind of response or reaction.

Athos eyes began scanning the compound for a familiar figure. "How did you hear this?" he asked, taking a sip from his cup, working hard to present a calm exterior.

"Brice and Corbin. I overheard them in the stables." d'Artagnan's fingers curled, nails scratching into the wood in frustration. "They asked Treville if he might send someone out to find them."

"And?" Athos canted his head.

"He said he couldn't spare anyone," he ground out icily.

Athos nodded, but said nothing more.

Predictably, d'Artagnan looked perplexed. "That doesn't worry you?"

Athos set his cup down and took a breath as he thought how best to respond. Overreacting would get the boy's dander up too quickly. "It does, to a degree." He gazed up at the youth. "They've been late before. We all have. It's not uncommon."

"Perhaps," the Gascon pressed. "But overworked, running on an average of three hours of sleep each day for the last two weeks." He leaned in further. "How common is that?"

Athos caught movement behind d'Artagnan and his gaze shifted. Treville stood in the courtyard talking with Renaud. When the other Musketeer nodded and moved slowly off to do his bidding, the captain walked to the gated entry and stopped dead center. Hands on hips, face tight and drawn, he stared out at the road beyond the entrance, as if searching for someone—or two  _someone's_ — jaw shifting, clearly grinding his teeth. Athos had known the man long enough to understand that look.

"If not two days, then when?" d'Artagnan pressed, impatient for an answer. "Four days, five overdue? At what moment do we do something?"

"The moment I see him," he indicated to Treville as he stood and tossed his napkin on the table, "look worried."

D'Artagnan turned, following his gaze. "Doesn't he always look like that?" the boy squinted trying to note some semblance of difference in the Captain's posture.

"I think I'm going to have a word with him." Athos stepped around the table and when d'Artagnan made to join him, he held out a staying hand. "Perhaps one of us is sufficient at the moment." When d'Artagnan looked to argue, Athos voice softened. "Don't forget, he too has had to pull extra shifts to fill in for us. I imagine he won't appreciate us coming at him enforce."

D'Artagnan hesitated, eyes sliding over to take in the Captain before finally nodding in acquiescence. In that one decision alone, Athos felt relief assuage some of his worry, but the closer he drew to the Captain, the stronger that small voice within urged him to act with haste. Two days was not at all like Aramis and Porthos.

"Captain Treville, might I have a word?"

The Captain glanced at Athos and pulled his leather gloves from his belt. "If this is about d'Artagnan's desire to return to duty, I haven't the time. I'm due at the palace for guard duty."

"It's about Aramis and Porthos." This close, Athos could make out not only the worry, but lines of exhaustion and perhaps a tinge of annoyance.

Treville fitted his gloves on, plucked his hat from beneath his arm and jammed it on his head, seemingly intent on not meeting Athos' gaze. "What about them?"

Athos blinked curiously at him. "They are almost two days late."

"Yes," he offered casually, but there was a tightness there. "I'm aware." He lifted his head and stared hard at Athos. "How did you find out?"

"That does not matter. Under normal circumstances, I would not bat an eye, but these are not normal circumstances." He canted his head, searching their Captain's face for some clue as to his dismissive responses. "If you're sending men out tomorrow—"

"I'm not." Treville cut in. "Now, if you'll excuse me." He started walking for the exit.

"Fine," Athos remarked casually as he walked alongside him. "Let d'Artagnan and I go out and—"

"No."

"You didn't let me finish."

"I didn't have to." He halted and turned toward Athos. "That's the nice thing about being your commanding officer." He pulled his cape close to ward off the evening chill. "Now get some rest. You still look like hell."

Caught off guard by such a dismissal, Athos was a beat late catching up to his commander but moved swiftly to close the distance. "I understand you cannot spare healthy men," he said in a hushed tone, "but we aren't clear for duty yet, and—"

"And you aren't going to be any time soon if you go off gallivanting out in the countryside for what is very likely a fool's errand."

"Captain." Picking up his pace, Athos managed to keep in step.

"No," Treville barked back. "If I sent you and d'Artagnan out, I'd be jeopardizing both your health and very probably your lives. Not to mention neither of you are ready to be in the vicinity of trouble."

Athos grabbed his arm and stopped him. "So even you admit they may have come to some trouble."

Treville turned tightly to face him. "I admit nothing,"

Athos struggled to hide his mounting annoyance. "This is Porthos and Aramis we're talking about…"

"Yes we are," Treville concurred. "Two very capable, resourceful Musketeers."

"Who have been working double and triple duty for two weeks," Athos retorted, no longer caring who heard. "Who may or may not be fit to deal with whatever their current situation is. Surely you see that."

"And surely you—" Treville broke off suddenly, his gaze shifting. They'd garnered the attention of every passer-by and more importantly, the rather large contingent of musketeers who had gathered in the yard and who were now standing at the gate. "I'm late for the palace. We can talk about this tomorrow..."

This time Athos didn't try to stop him. Instead, he looked at d'Artagnan and shook his head then turned to watch as Treville disappeared into the crowd of late day merchants and residents.

Aramis jerked his gaze over to the now defunct card game.

Geroux was on his feet and glaring down at Porthos. Eyes flashing, face angry and nearly as red as his hair, he kicked the now toppled chair out of the way in an obvious effort to make room for a fight The men either side of him stood slower, flanking Geroux. The Marquis d'Évreux also stood, but moved back and away from the pending melee, showing no desire to put an end to the rising tempers.

Without taking his eyes off Geroux, Aramis gave Collette's arm a reassuring squeeze, maneuvering the girl gently from his lap to the chair next to his. When her worried gaze caught his questioningly, he pressed a finger to his lips and sat up on the edge of his chair, noting that not one of the men had yet to glance his way. Clearly they'd forgotten him. How fortunate.

Confident but wary, Porthos scooted away from the table, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze leveled at his accuser. Geroux's hair seemed to glow a brighter, hotter red; whether from the ill-tempered man's mood or the flickering hearth, Aramis could not say. Foolishly, his hand edged to the hilt of his sword—

On reflex, Aramis' hand went to the butt of one of his pistols— a small hand stayed him. He looked into Colette's face, a silent plea for caution dancing in her bright eyes.

"Ah-ah-ah," Porthos intoned and Geroux' wisely froze. "You better think very carefully before you pull that blade, friend," the dark skinned Musketeer growled, a predatory smile creasing his face.

"Please…" Colette whispered, shifting closer to Aramis. "Take your friend and go before 'tis too late."

Aramis' hand never left his weapon. Despite her pleadings, he would defend his friend at all costs. Together, he and Porthos could fight these men off and be done with it; the villagers would then have no need to fear.

"I cannot let them hurt my friend," he murmured icily, more determined than he felt as he watched the tense exchange across the room.

Sensing his hesitancy, Colette leaned in closer. "You may kill the men working for the Marquis," she whispered anxiously, "but can you take the life of a nobleman without being held in account? And even if you are not, surely  _we_  will!"

Thinking on her words, movement near the bar caught the marksman's attention and he noted the bartender moving warily to the door before motioning to someone outside. The stable boy appeared briefly, and after whispered words, the lad took off at a run.

Aramis deflated. He'd not thought of that. Still, it rankled and he could not hold that back. "Musketeers do not run from a fight."

"You don't understand," she squeezed his arm, "when this is all over, whether you are dead or his men are, he will unleash all of his anger on us and make us pay for his wounded pride. Please," she whispered anxiously. "Just go."

Keeping his attention divided between what Colette and the drama unfolding across the room, Aramis relaxed some as Geroux's hand moved away from his blade, apparently heeding Porthos' warning.

"Wise choice," Porthos chuckled before grinning up at his opponents.

But it was far from over. Aramis could recognize the tension in Porthos' shoulders, the well-known glint in his eyes, it was as familiar to the marksman as his own name. However, between the girl, now shaking violently next to him, and the anxious tavern owner who was more pale than before, the satisfying prospect of taking on an abusive nobleman seemed less appealing by the second, not when the stakes were so high.

The girl was right. Even if they did not hurt the Marquis, he would be free to bring the rest of his men to take retribution on the village inhabitants. Then, he'd likely take his complaint to the King and very possibly Porthos would find himself sentenced to the Châtelet and that was if he was lucky. The options for men like the two of them, especially men of Porthos' complexion, were limited and less than fair.

It rankled though. The very thought of leaving. Riding away and remanding these people to the mercy of a tyrant. Like cowards. Aramis chafed at the thought and he knew Porthos would as well, if he had an inkling what was really going on. The very idea left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Then he had a truly terrible idea. One that both delighted and worried him given their current state. Pulling his weapons belt to himself he carefully lowered it to his lap, watching to make certain his movement remained undetected.

"You recognized the King's seal," he murmured, noting Colette's nod out of his periphery. "Did any of the others?"

"I... don't think so. But they watched as you both rode into town, and they worried. Your bearings spoke of trouble and I was to ply you for information."

"Trouble eh?" Aramis grinned. "Excellent. Then when we leave, tell them exactly what you know; we work for the King. Nothing more."

"My God," she leaned back and stared at him. "He'll set his men on you."

"That is the point," he murmured as he moved out of the chair and knelt to remain out of sight and to fasten his belt about his waist.

The serving girl placed a staying hand on his shoulder. "I was not lying. He really does have forty men at his disposal."

Aramis took her hand and kissed it. "All of whom will be coming after us. Yes. I know."

Colette leaned back and stared. "You're insane."

"I know that too," the marksman offered moving over behind Colette. "I make no promises," he whispered in her ear, "but I will do my best to keep the Marquis' men from you, and to let the King know what transpires here."

Not waiting for her reply, he sank back to the shadows, where the firelight did not touch.

All attention on Porthos, Aramis skirted the room, maneuvering slowly to get closer to the table. Watching and listening as the argument escalated. He only hoped he reached Porthos in time before it was too late.

"Nobody is that good," Geroux bellowed. "Nobody beats the Marquis d'Évreux and gets away with it."

The Marquis stood back quietly, well away from the pending fray. At the mention of his name, he notched his chin high and looked down his nose at Porthos, one side of his thin lips tilted in a cruel smile. The other three men held their arms out from their sides, fists clenched, ready to swing at anything, their eyes locked on Porthos.

Porthos rose from his chair, tired of the game. "Then what are you waiting for?" he bellowed.

Aramis cursed internally and moved quickly from the shadows out into the room.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen…" he called out loud enough to be heard but kept his voice calm and convivial as he walked toward the table. The Marquis' men immediately grabbed for their swords and Aramis held up placating hands. "Now-now," he soothed, "no need for violence. I'm sure we can work this out." He stepped up to stand next to Porthos. "After all, we are all God's children, are we not? We can forgive and forget, yes?"

Geroux glanced Aramis up one side and down the other. "You don't look like no priest."

"Ah," Aramis placed a hand over his heart. "Much to my parents' great disappointment, I am not. But that does not mean I don't value peace over bloodshed." He made eye-contact with each of the Marquis' men then threw a quick glance at Porthos.

"What are you doing?" Porthos murmured out of one side of his mouth.

The marksman shrugged. It was probably a terrible idea and he doubted it would work, but it was worth a try. He had promised. "Just follow my lead," he responded quietly and looked back at the Marquis.

It seemed no one knew just what to make of this turn of events so Aramis took the lead and stepped up to the table. "Tell you what," he looked down at the gambled winnings, placed both hands on the mound and shoved it across the table toward Geroux. "How about we split the pot and call it a night, huh?"

Unsurprisingly, Porthos balked. "Now wait just a minute—"

Aramis stepped back and purposefully drove the heel of his boot hard into Porthos' toe. The bigger man choked back a groan of pain.

Geroux stepped toward them menacingly. "Nobody cheats the Marquis and gets away with it."

Painting on his best smile, he held his hands up, palms out. "My friend and I, we don't want trouble." One hand swept at the table with a flourish. "It would be a shame to fight over something so trivial as a game of chance. If it's reparations you want," he leaned in and shoved the entire pile of coins across the table, Porthos' winnings with them, "there. Good enough?"

Geroux hesitated and looked at the Marquis. The nobleman stared at the pile then at Aramis, his eyes narrowed as if trying to figure just who he was. The longer this took, the worse their odds. He had to move this along, so Aramis took the initiative.

"See, I knew you were a reasonable man." He started moving back. "Let's just put this unpleasantness behind us and we'll just be on our way. You, gentlemen, can resume playing if you chose. Forget we were ever here."

Aramis did not have to look to know Porthos stood fuming behind him. The Marquis and his men were another matter altogether. They looked taken aback. They shared odd glances, some shaking their heads, other shrugging, clearly uncertain if Aramis was joking or not.

While they remained undecided, Aramis backed up, hooked an arm into Porthos' and spun him to face the door. "Porthos, I do believe our horses are saddled and waiting outside." He looked askance at the bartender who nodded. "Let us take our leave," he said as he quickened their steps and reached the door. "Now."

"What the hell—"

"Later," Aramis grumbled before shoving Porthos out the door. He turned quickly back to face the occupants in the room.

"Messieurs," the marksman said loudly, cutting off any objections from his companion. "And mademoiselle," he bowed with all the flourish of a man at court, then straightened and placed his hat on his head. "I bid you good night, and again, my humble apologies if we caused you," his gaze slid to Colette, "any undue stress."

They made it through the door and down the steps, Porthos teeth grinding angrily every step of the way, but at least he was moving. Aramis slowed and looked back. The sound of raised voices in the tavern told him all he needed to know; the Marquis' men were arguing. The marksman was now not so certain these men would allow even a moment's retreat, but he intended to try.

"Dammit," Aramis whispered. He turned and reached his horse in four hurried steps.

"Well?" Porthos ground out, standing stubbornly next to his horse. "What the hell is going on? What just happened in there?"

"Not now, and not here," Aramis spat out testily, grabbing up the reins to his horse. It galled him to shy from a fight— especially with a despot like d'Évreux calling the shots. He placed his foot in the stirrup and hauled himself up into the saddle, too angry to care about how much he'd been looking forward to a bed tonight.

"Aramis." Porthos glared, clearly unwilling to go any further without an explanation.

"We  _must_  ride as quickly as the horses allow us," he told his companion hoping his tone conveyed what time did not allow, "and for as long as they will bear it…  _then_  I will explain everything. I swear."

Porthos hesitated then nodded tightly, his face sullen but dark with anger. "Damn right, you will." He stepped reluctantly into the stirrup and swung himself astride before glaring at the marksman. "That was a fair sized pot you gave 'way."

"I am well aware," he offered in hasty apology as he gathered the reins. Aramis shook his head, imploring. "Just lend me your trust blindly for tonight?"

The dark skinned Musketeer said nothing, he only turned his horse around before kneeing the animal onward. Aramis exhaled in relief and tossed a glance toward the tavern, hoping his little show had thrown d'Évreux and his men off balance enough to buy them time. If this worked and they managed to draw the Marquis' men away, it will have been worth it.

Following suit, Aramis turned his horse, set to catch up to Porthos when a sudden commotion brought him up short.

There was the familiar click of a gun and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled in warning. He twisted in the saddle, just in time to see Geroux and two other men, pour out the door of the tavern, a pistols in hand, glaring thunderously at them.

Not them.

_Porthos_.

Whose back was turned—

Time seemed to stop. Geroux leveled his pistol and took aim.

"No!" Aramis shouted and dug his heels viciously into his horse's sides. The animal whinnied in distress and leaped forward, placing the marksman in its path.

Twin bursts of powder flashed in the dark, a quick succession of shots ringing out.

Aramis' body rocked once, then again. Pain ignited a fire in his side and shoulder. That alone would have been enough to knock him to the ground, but instinct kept him in the saddle, even while his horse danced anxiously beneath him.

Dizzy and breathless, his vision blurred and he slumped forward. Eyes squeezed closed.

There in the dark, he could only listen. Sounds rose and fell all around; Porthos shouting his name, a woman screaming, voices arguing... dimmed by the rising tide of blood rushing in his ears.

Then... he heard nothing at all.

 

TBC... 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mother's Day to all you mommies out there!
> 
> Remember! Beta's are your best friends and the best thing they can do is question all that you do and allow nothing to go by unnoticed. I am blessed with the best of them! Thank you Adrenalineshots and Sue Pokorny. xxoo
> 
> This one is a bit short but there are some rather long, verbose chapters ahead. :)

**Chapter 3**

 

Porthos twisted in the saddle just in time to see Aramis' horse lunge forward. Time moved slower, as it often did in tense moments such as these. One shot became two, and he watched in horror as Aramis' body rocked twice then lay slumped over his horse's' neck.

"Aramis!" In one smooth motion, he wheeled his horse, drew and urged the animal to move between their attackers and his friend. A pistol in his free hand, his need for revenge warred with his need to check on his injured friend. He realized quickly the choice was made for him.

The barkeeper stood at the entrance to the tavern, a pair of pistols leveled at their attackers, containing them for the moment. A tenuous standoff at best as the men glared angrily at the interloper, uncertain as to the barkeeper's willingness to shoot them both. The girl who'd been sidling up to Aramis earlier, stood just behind the barman, her worried gaze watching the events unfold.

"You're making a big mistake, Renard," the red haired man growled.

"No, Geroux," the barkeeper's voice trembled, but he gripped the pistol tighter. "The only mistake I made was letting it go on this long. You and the Marquis, this blood sport of yours, it ends here and now."

"The Marquis d'Évreux will not take this lightly…"

Renard swallowed hard, and his eyes scanned the small crowd. "The Marquis? And where is he now, hmm? As usual, the coward ducked out the back door and scampered off into the night."

"I'll make you eat those words, innkeeper. You'll regret it."

"I regret plenty but not this." The barkeeper notched his chin higher. "Like so many before them, these men have done nothing to warrant your sick game. My only true regret is not going to the King myself months ago."

"As if he'd listen to the likes of you…" Geroux spat. "You're a dead man, Renard."

"Possibly," Renard shifted nervously but kept his head. "But after these men return to Paris and report to the King, what happens to me will matter very little."

Geroux looked curiously from the innkeeper

"They're King's Musketeers, Geroux," the girl supplied evenly. "I feel certain that what they say will matter to the King."

Geroux looked intensely at Porthos and Aramis, fear finally mingling with the anger as he studied them and came to an understanding that the girl had spoken the truth. "You'll never make it back to Paris," he sneered at Porthos.

Porthos wanted nothing more than to dismount and wipe that look off Geroux' face, but next to him, Aramis groaned and he knew he had other priorities this night.

"Gather your friend, monsieur," Renard advised, directing his words to Porthos while keeping his pistols steadily on Geroux and his second. "And get gone from here, quick as you can."

"No!" Porthos growled. "Can't you see my friend's hurt. We can't ride."

"The Marquis is at this very moment riding to his estate where he has more than thirty men in his employ. They will hunt you down and kill you; it was a game with the others, but now, it will be a matter of their very survival." Renard glanced apologetically to the dark skinned Musketeer. "If they arrive before you leave…"

Porthos swore under his breath, his horse dancing beneath him, seemingly understanding the urgency of the warning. This… this had perhaps been what Aramis eluded so cryptically earlier.

Moving his horse over to where the marksman lay slumped across his horse's neck, motionless, he swallowed. Across his back, a shiny substance glimmered in the moonlight that could only be blood and that was just what he could see. He'd no idea how badly wounded he was, but was buoyed by the quick rise and fall of Aramis' upper body. There was no time to check his injuries; Porthos could only pray Aramis could stay in the saddle until they were far from this Hell.

Leaning into his friend, he noted his eyes were closed. "Aramis," he called, placing a hand on his shoulder, meaning to rouse him, and felt him recoil with a hiss. He drew the hand back immediately and looked at it; blood stained his glove. "Shit…"

"Pr'thos…" Aramis' voice was weak, muffled by his horse's' neck. Lifting his head slightly, he blinked blearily at his friend. Clearly it was all he could do to remain in the saddle. How he managed it, was beyond him.

"Hey." Porthos leaned down once more to catch his eye. "How bad?"

With an effort, Aramis straightened enough to look down at the hand he'd had pressed to his side. The leather of his glove was saturated with blood. "Bad enough...," he offered breathlessly as he pressed down on the wound. "Ball's still in there."

"Monsieur…" Renard called out uneasily.

"Just…" Porthos reached back to grab a cloth from one of the marksman's nearest saddlebags, "give me a minute." He glanced quickly at the restless crowd and handed the fabric to his friend, watching as he took it with a shaky hand and buried it beneath the folds of his shirt and doublet to press it to the wound, hissing against the pressure.

Porthos craned his head to look at the shoulder wound before Aramis interrupted him. "P-pack it." He gritted out. "Can't st—stay here. It's not deep."

"Well there's some luck," Porthos mumbled and grabbed the first thing that he could use as a bandage, all the while trying to keep a watchful eye on Geroux and his men.

Swearing under his breath, Porthos grabbed more cloths from the pack and lifting Aramis' cloak slightly, enough to pull the tacky material away from bloodied flesh, he gave a quick apology and shoved the wad up under material of his shirt then pressed hard against the wound. Aramis shook beneath his hand but it could not be helped.

Looking at the lace on the shirt he'd pressed against the second wound as it slowly turned red, Porthos had a fleeting thought about it being Aramis' favorite shirt and how unhappy he was going to be about the purpose to which he'd given it.

"P'rthos." Aramis shuttered but his head was up and his was gaze locked on the small crowd of men on the tavern stoop. Geroux and his men whispering amongst themselves anxiously, clearly planning something. "Hurry."

"Good enough?" Porthos asked but he was already pulling his hand away, adjusting Aramis shirt and doublet back over the gash, hoping it would lay heavy enough to apply pressure of its own.

Aramis nodded. "We cannot linger."

Porthos gathered up the reins to Aramis' horse. "Can you hang on?" he asked glancing at Geroux. In his heart of hearts, he vowed silently, this man would pay and Porthos would see to it.

"Don't su— suppose," Aramis groaned, "it'd do much good to tell you to leave without me…"

Porthos wiped his head around to stare at his friend, brow furrowed. While spoken somewhat lightly, he saw the glimmer of hope in the marksman's eye and so sought to make himself clear on the matter.

"We go together. Now," he said, gripping the free hand Aramis had resting on the pommel. "Or we die here. Together." He squeezed Aramis bloodied hand. "Now which one is it? You want me to die here, that it?"

Aramis looked at Porthos a moment, eyes screaming in pain and a myriad of emotions and something else. It was a look he'd only seen once, during the days after Savoy. Resignation.

Aramis choked, his frustration swallowed by another wave of pain.

"Bastard…" Aramis whispered while lacing his fingers into his horse's' mane. Once done, he seemed to gather himself. A curt, determined nod was as much as he could manage this time.

Porthos chuckled, but it was grim and full of fear. "That's right, stay mad at me. It'll keep you alive!" They were already moving when he looked back at Renard. "Thank you, monsieur."

"Good luck," he called back, but never took his eyes off Red and his men.

Glancing once more at Aramis, Porthos pulled the marksman's horse up alongside his. "You stay on that horse, 'Mis," he ordered, turning their horses until they were pointed out of the village. "You hear me? Stay on that damn horse." With a shout and a kick, the men were off into the night.

Athos had tried. He really had. But if anything, Captain Treville's off-putting manner earlier that evening had only succeeded in heightening the former compte's frustration, and he'd given up on any attempts at sleep. He knew Treville, though he'd never known the man under these circumstances, but he could tell he was worried. To be fair, there was little _not_ to worry about given the events of the last two weeks; between his own men falling ill – some of whom were still too close to death's door – and their duty to King and country as a unit, it was a trying time.

So between his earlier tossing in bed, to the present pacing in his room, attempt to shake off growing worry, he soon realized what he must do and from there, the exertion took on greater purpose. With great determination, he moved about the room, working to strengthen muscles atrophied by illness and inactivity, working to restore them to greater stamina and strength. And when his muscles screamed for reprieve, he pushed harder, grabbing his sword to begin sparring with his shadow. Light from the room's single candle soon began to quiver and flicker in the breeze of parried steel, making his form dance like a nearly worthy opponent.

Sometime later, bathed in sweat, he glanced outside his second story window to gauge the hour. By the position of the full moon illuminating the garrison courtyard, he quickly assessed the passage of time. Treville would soon return; so he sheathed his rapier, grabbed his coat and just as he grabbed the door latch, a knock sounded on the other side.

Jerking the door open he stared at a very tense d'Artagnan who looked Athos up and down a moment before huffing. "It's about time. I was beginning to think you'd actually meant to leave this to morning."

Athos leaned out and looked out up at the sky. "Well, it is morning somewhere." Stepping out, he closed the door behind him and placed his hat on his head. "Come on then. I know where Serge keeps his private stash and I for one could use a drink and some fresh air."

D'Artagnan nodded and fell into step beside his friend. "Then we get our horses and ride?"

Athos sighed. "Depends. Do you want to become a Musketeer or not?" He let that sink in a moment but felt the boy's step hesitate and come to a stop.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Athos turned and eyed the young Gascon sidelong. "It means if we do this your way, you may never get your commission and I stand a good chance of losing mine. And all this based on some augury that our friends might be in danger. I do not think they would approve of such an endeavor, especially if they come riding in with the rising sun to find us gone."

D'Artagnan paced up to Athos and stopped close to him. "So you don't think they're in trouble."

"I did not say that."

"So you _do_ think they are in trouble?"

"I did not say that either."

D'Artagnan flung hands up in the air in exasperation and marched away, stopping some distance from his friend.

"I'm saying we have only a feeling there is something wrong, and that is not enough to persuade the King if we were to go off halfcocked."

Hands planted in his hips, d'Artagnan exhaled loudly and looked down a moment. "Then why are we here?"

"To talk to Treville upon his return."

"Right," he bit out icily, "because that worked so spectacularly before."

Athos walked calmly up to the younger man and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I know him well enough by now. Trust me."

D'Artagnan gazed thoughtfully before finally nodding. The pair then made their way quietly into Serge's kitchen and after some careful rifling of his stores, soon had a warmed wine to ward off the night chill and settled themselves at the mess table outside the galley door.

Athos lost track of how long he and d'Artagnan sat there, slumped over their mugs, keeping their vigil, each solemn in his own worried thoughts, only talking quietly when they were of a mind. Having just about decided he needed a walk around the yard to stay awake, a familiar form walked through the garrison gates. Athos felt the boy tense next to him and knew immediately he saw him too.

Even without the bright moon illuminating the yard, the way Treville moved, the way he held himself spoke volumes. Head down, shoulders slumped, he walked without his usual gait, this one more stilted and dragging. They'd all worked last guard shift at the palace before, but not after having so little rest before. Athos imagined Aramis and Porthos looked much the same these last few weeks.

Making his way to the steps leading to his office and his bed, Treville seemed not to notice them at first. But as he drew closer, Athos and d'Artagnan stood; whether it was movement or sound, they had his attention and he ground to a halt.

"I gave you specific orders to rest and that we'd talk this out in the morning."

D'Artagnan shrugged. "I napped. What about you Athos?"

"I… more or less dozed."

"And as Athos pointed out earlier," d'Artagnan grinned lamely back at Athos, "it is morning somewhere." Athos answered with a weak glare.

Treville sighed. "My office." He trudged up the stairs slowly, Athos and d'Artagnan following behind.

Once inside, the captain lit the lamp on his table then blew out the light stick before placing it carefully in a cup on the opposite corner of the desk. The wick turned low, the lamp cast more than enough light for the Musketeer commander to see the gaunt but determined faces of his two men.

Treville stood behind the desk, hands crossed behind his back, staring out the window, a kind of weariness in the set of his shoulders that Athos hadn't noticed before, his eagerness and annoyance of earlier dimming at the sight. Still, he could not fathom what had set him so against their need to know what, if anything, had prevented their friends' timely return. It could be nothing, but Treville had admitted as much to the possibility that it might be something…

When d'Artagnan entered, he moved to stand next to Athos but stopped at a nod toward the door from the older man. The Gascon moved back and closed it quietly before coming to stand next to him. A sort of quiet tension seemed to fill the room after that, and it was all Athos could do to let it play out.

"You know what the other men call you?" the captain finally began, his voice low and with a wistful tone to it. "The Inseparables." He turned and looked at them squarely, the earlier edge gone.

Athos nodded. While this was likely news to the younger member of their group, he'd heard the nickname before but had thought little on the matter. It was a simple thing, really. They had all come into one another's lives when they'd needed each other at the right time and for the right reasons. And it worked. Simple. Uncomplicated and accepting.

Treville seemed to let that sink in a moment. "I wasn't sure what to think of that when I first heard it," he continued. "To be honest, it worried me a bit. I didn't need three—now four— of my best men bonding to the exclusion of all others. I needed military men who could work with one another regardless of whom they were working with. And do you know what I found out?"

Athos arched one brow. "That we are a pain in the ass," he hedged. "And you wish you had never taken this job?"

Treville chuckled. "Besides that…"

Athos and d'Artagnan traded a look and shook their heads.

"I discovered that the way you behaved with one another was contagious." Hands still clasped behind his back, he walked over to a window that overlooked the courtyard below and gazed out. It was nearly dark out. "You all are better for the company you keep with one another, and when I put you with any of the other men, you instill in them the desire to that same camaraderie." He turned and looked at them with pride and fondness in equal measure. "Which makes me either an incredible leader or just damn lucky."

Athos mouth tilted upward on one side. "I think luck is something that every leader must possess in some measure, but at the end of the day, it's character and skill that will build a unit."

"My father always said," d'Artagnan added with a small smile, "that like attracts like. If we're any good, you've seen to making us better."

Treville saw the compliments for what they were and nodded. Face hardening, he sighed. "I still shouldn't let you go." He walked over and sat down behind his desk. "But if I don't, you'll just go anyway, I'd imagine."

"You could say no," Athos offered thoughtfully, "and that is your right, but we could just decide that we should go on a little ride tomorrow—"

"Early," d'Artagnan added, "because we'd want to beat the heat."

Athos nodded. "Just to get back into riding shape, mind you."

"So more of a…" d'Artagnan looked at the Captain, "leisurely ride."

Treville stared at them, face unreadable. "You were right about one thing, Athos." A knowing grin tilted one side of his face. "You - all of you, are a pain in my ass." It was a moment of levity that quickly vanished as the Captain's face quickly grew more somber. "You really think they've got into trouble?"

Athos nodded once, with certainty. "Two days is too long."

The Captain stared at them a moment before lowering his gaze. "I do not disagree," he finally admitted. "And come sunrise," he slapped his hands on the arms of his chair and rose, "it'll be one more at least."

"Sir?" Athos called out curiously.

"You can leave at sun-up, after morning muster," Treville replied with finality, his voice brooking no argument. When d'Artagnan made to respond, he held up his hand. "Don't bother arguing, that's final. You're lucky to be going at all."

Athos exhaled, relief nearly making him dizzy. "Thank you, sir."

Treville only pressed his lips into a thin, tight line in response. He looked Athos up and down then d'Artagnan. "One last night of sleep will do you some good, and," he wagged a finger at them, but particularly hard at the younger Musketeer, "I want to see you both at Serge's table eating morning meal before you leave. And I do mean eat. Is that clear?"

Athos would've smiled if concern for his friends weren't gnawing a hole in his gut. He could tell by looking at d'Artagnan, the lad felt the same. Instead they both offered a crisp 'Yes, sir,' and were dismissed to their quarters.

Sleep, they knew, would be a hard thing to come by this night.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

They rode as if the hounds of hell licked at their feet. Porthos gripped the reins to Aramis' horse tightly, in one breath cursing the full moon that made likely their foe's attempt at pursuit, and in the other, thanking whatever God Aramis subscribed to for enough light to make an escape possible.

Through every pounding hoof beat of retreat, worry churned deep in the dark skinned Musketeer's gut. More than once, he'd glanced back and each time the same; Aramis remained astride, quietly hanging on for dear life, dealing with whatever pain their jarring ride surely elicited. It was to that 'dear life' that Porthos' concern grew exponentially.

The longer Aramis' injuries went unattended, the less his chances of survival. He needed to stop and check those wounds before the marksman bled to death. And so with some distance between them and that bloody town, he spied a large copes of trees and veered their mounts toward it.

After a quick glance back at his injured friend, he ducked beneath the low branches and once behind the sheltering trees, turned their horses around until he faced out the way they'd come. Peering out between the dense foliage, his hand tightened its grip on Aramis' horse but he did not otherwise move.

Years of training held him in check. After a hard ride, let the forest settle and your senses quiet in order to gauge for danger or peace. Wait. Watch and listen.

Aramis' horse shifted and stomped at the ground before settling, the sound a whispered, urgent reminder of the condition of its rider. It took every ounce of strength within him to not immediately drop from the saddle and go to his friend.

When no sound of men and horses reached his hearing, he leapt from his saddle and reached Aramis' horse in two strides. The injured man's eyes were closed and his head lay on his horse's neck, his hands closed into tight fists over the animal's black mane. The leather of his gloves were tangled and twisted, indicating the grip tight enough to cut off circulation beneath.

"Aramis…" Porthos called out breathlessly, removing his friend's hat to push at sweat soaked hair that covered his face. It seemed an eternity before Aramis' eyes finally opened, and the big man sighed in relief. "Hey. Had me worried a bit there."

Hunched over, Aramis' head wobbled upright as he took in their surroundings. "Why-Why're we stopped?" he rasped.

"'Cause I'm takin' a look at them wounds." Porthos gripped Aramis' shoulder gently, resting the other hand on his back, ready to support him in dismounting. "C'mon, lets get you down, a'right?"

"No," Aramis leaned away, shaking his head in objection. "Sh-should keep moving. They'll follow."

"They can try but it's dark, save for the moonlight and that makes for better shadows than trail." He could see the marksman remained unconvinced and pressed on. "They'll likely wait for dawn before mounting a good effort. The trees'll shield us for a while. Come on." He tried to grab Aramis again, but noting the stubborn set of his jaw thought better of it.

"Just a b-bit further…"

The big man sighed and placed his hands on his hips. "If it were me shot, acting like a stubborn mule, what would you do?"

Aramis held his ground a moment, then sighed as he slumped in the saddle. "You're annoying when you're reasonable."

"And you're a stubborn ass when you're hurt." Porthos widened his stance and tried to guide his friend as he began to slowly tip from the saddle and into his arms.

"Di—" the marksman's voice stuttered, each shift of his body obviously aggravating his wounds. "Didn't want you shot." He hissed in pain when Porthos grip came too close to his wounded shoulder.

Porthos was no stranger to injury and that suited him fine. He would much rather deal with his own pain and discomfort than to be entrusted with the life of one of his brothers, something that he held more precious than his own.

"I know." Porthos ground his teeth together, trying to do most of the work without further hurting his friend, but knowing there was only so much he could do to spare him pain. "You got tired of taking care of me so you decided to take all the attention for yourself."

When Aramis' feet finally hit the ground, he groaned long and loud. The marksman was rarely hurt, but of the four of them, whenever fate deemed it his turn, it was never by half measures. Porthos prayed that just this once, it would be so.

Gripping the shorter man around the waist, Porthos tried disentangling his hands from the mane but to no avail. He hadn't the time nor patience for such an effort.

"Gonna have to cut your hand free," he murmured and pressed Aramis up against the horse. "You'll need to stand a bit. Won't be long. Can you do that for me?"

"I've been shot before," Aramis looked over his shoulder, pinning Porthos with a peevish glare. "I'll m-manage."

"Yeah," Porthos nodded, bolstered by Aramis' annoyance, knowing it meant things weren't as bad as they could be. Yet. "I know," he continued, keeping one hand on Aramis' back and reaching behind himself to draw his main gauche, "but you've lost a lot of blood. Don't have to be a medic to know that's bad."

Aramis leaned his head down against the animal's neck. "Then I suggest," he panted, his voice muffled into his horse's' neck, "you hurry and quit talking s'm-much."

Porthos was already sawing at the tangled hair, pressing close against Aramis' back to keep him upright. The longer it took, the more the marksman began to sway, and just as he finished, Aramis' knees buckled and he began to crumple to the ground.

Just managing to catch him about the waist, Porthos stilled, allowing the injured man time enough to catch his breath.

Fearful they were close to the end of whatever reserve strength Aramis possessed, he nudged his friend. "You ready?" he asked, goading him gently. "Or shall I carry you like some feeble old woman?"

That did it. Straightening somewhat, Aramis turned his head to glare. "I'll show you feeble," he ground out and tried to stand.

The sight would've been more comical if the frailty his friend so formidably displayed were borne out of a night spent deep in their cups, but that was not the case. Instead it was but a sore reminder of the severity of Aramis' injury, the sort that he could not just shrug off as a mere scratch.

"C'mon then," Porthos said, trying to keep his tone light as he brought his injured brother up with him as he stood. The marksman remained bent over slightly, his one arm clutched around his midsection. "Have a nice comfy tree over here for you."

It was the longest four steps of his life, Porthos supporting more and more of his friend's weight with each step. At the base of the largest tree he carefully lowered the wounded man to the ground, steadying him to lean his uninjured side against the trunk for support. The air held a chill so Porthos chose not to divest him of his doublet and garments if he could help it.

"Alright then," he knelt next to Aramis and plucked at the collar of the ruined shirt. "Lets get a look at your shoulder," he mumbled, pulling the material away from the bloodied wound. When he got to the wadded shirt, the fabric, tacky with blood, stuck to his flesh and he felt Aramis shutter as he tugged it off.

With his view mostly unencumbered, he took a good look at the torn flesh. The ball had entered the outer shoulder and skittered along the top a good five inches, leaving a furrowed trench in its wake, before embedding just beneath the muscle.

"This'n will be easy enough to dig out," Porthos observed as he gazed at the wound. "Not bleedin' much."

"Tha-that will change when you start diggin' your big hands around for the lead," Aramis panted.

"Yeah…" he bit his lip thoughtfully and realized he'd best get supplies set up before he went further. "Wait here," he sat back and jumped to his feet. "Be right back."

Aramis huffed. "I'll wait here," he sighed, head hanging in a combination of exhaustion and pain.

Porthos moved swiftly to Aramis' horse and pulled the Musketeer's pack from behind the saddle, where he knew the rest of his medical supplies. Then, shouldering both of their water skins, noting haltingly that one was far lighter than the other, he returned to where Aramis sat, still hunched over.

"I'm going to have to dig them out," Porthos muttered as he knelt in the damp grass and began rummaging around in Aramis' medical kit. He pulled out a bundle of meticulously folded clean cloths and set them aside, continuing to search the contents.

"Naturally." Aramis grimaced. "Do-don't imagine they'll do us a favor and fall out on their own."

"This one'll be easy," Porthos said, head bent as he searched the kit. "I can see the shape of the ball where it sits beneath the… skin." His voice caught in his throat. "What the—," he growled. The casual rummaging turned frantic and he finally dumped the contents of the kit on the ground and began shoving the various contents around.

"Porthos…" Aramis called, his voice full of inquiry.

Giving up, the larger man froze. "I can't find the flask of spirits." He stared forlornly at the wounded man. "The flask you keep for cleanin' wounds."

Aramis met his gaze. "Must've fallen out," he offered casually. He swallowed hard. "Water will suffice. 'Tis better tha-than nothing."

Porthos grunted in frustrated agreement and picked up the lighter waterskin. "Drink first," he ordered, removing the stopper and guiding the opening to his friend's mouth.

It was not long before the marksman indicated he'd slaked his thirst and the skin was lowered. "Use some of the water to flush the wounds," Aramis' ordered breathily. "Ball's shallow?"

"Yeah, figured I'd make a cut nearest I can to it. Then I can remove the ball."

Aramis nodded. "Y-your main gauche." He licked his lips and blinked slowly. "Water to clean the blade first."

It wasn't as if Porthos didn't know what to do. On the contrary, he'd doctored plenty of men over the years. But he appreciated Aramis' steady voice all the same. It grounded him, kept him focused. More than that, it told him it was alright. That he understood and that… that meant more to him than he cared to admit.

Leaning the marksman forward, he poured a gentle stream of water over the ravaged flesh, aware of his friends hiss of pain. When that was done, he used one of the clean cloths and blotted carefully around the wound to remove excess water.

Next Porthos drew his dagger and set about cleaning it as best he could, all the while feeling the weight of Aramis' stare on his every move. When he'd done his best, he hesitated, his gaze catching on the metal, noting how it glinted in the moonlight… and that his hand trembled at what he was about to do…

"You can do this," Aramis said with a tired smile. "Have faith."

Porthos nodded. If it gave his friend some comfort to believe he had any faith at all, he would agree to it willingly, but the weight of what he was about to do left him mired in doubt.

"You should've let them shoot me," he grumbled, knee-walking around Aramis' prone form to better position himself to get to the wound. "Then, at least you'd know what the hell you were doing."

"Tru—trust you, mon ami."

"Trust," Porthos huffed then shook his head. "It's not well placed."

"Would you give your life for me?"

Porthos opened his eyes. There was something in his friend's tone. "You know I would."

"As would I for you. Our trust could not be more safely placed, mon frère'."

Porthos wished he could accept that, but under the circumstances he felt woefully undeserving of such trust. "You uh, want something to bite down on?" he asked, knowing they could ill afford any loud noises just in case one of the Marquis' men lurked about.

Aramis shook his head. "No. I won't cry out. Just…" he turned painfully and grimaced at the larger man. "Get on with it. Delaying is not helping matters."

Porthos rose on his knees and scooted closer to get into a better position near the shoulder wound. Even in the moonlight he could easily see the outline of the ball beneath flesh and muscle, and the bloody trail of torn flesh it had furrowed. He licked his lips and after adjusting his grip of the dagger in sweaty palms, sent a silent prayer heavenward, a clumsy attempt he felt certain God would ignore, but a prayer nonetheless.

"This might pinch a little," he mumbled.

Aramis actually laughed. Porthos plunged the tip of the blade into his flesh and that laughter turned to a gasp. True to his word, though, the marksman did not cry out but his skin beneath Porthos' hands began to quiver for the effort to remain silent.

And when Porthos' took thumb and forefinger and pressed on either side of the ball to keep it from shifting while he cut, Aramis' silent resolve held. And when Porthos worked the ball free until it emerged through the slit, his friend did little more than tense. It wasn't until the musket ball fell harmlessly to the ground that he sank forward and leaned one shoulder hard against the tree.

The wound began to bleed and Porthos placed a cloth over it. "Sorry," he offered before pressing down. Aramis grunted at the pressure. A moment later, he wound another longer piece of linen under the marksman's arm and over the shoulder wound several times before tying it off. When he was done, they both sighed in relief.

"There…" Aramis panted, his voice cracked and strained. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?" He turned and caught Porthos' eye.

"Crazy bastard," Porthos huffed, shaking his head. Then, he gave the injured man a crisp nod. "Okay, lets get this over with."

"My sentiments exactly," he said, placing his free hand on the ground. "First one was just practice," he grunted, trying to shift himself to lean back against the tree. "You'll get the hang of it."

Porthos reached out to help guide the marksman into a reclined position, mindful of his back and its contact with the rough bark. "It's all the same to you, I'd rather not."

Aramis was panting, eyes glazed with pain by the time he was settled. "Yes. Well, I'm not sorry our positions are re-reversed."

Porthos nodded and his gaze shifted down to where Aramis' hand still pressed the cloth he'd given him earlier to his side. The material was soaked completely and rivulets of a dark, slick substance that could only be fresh blood, trailed alarmingly downward to disappear beneath the waistband of his trousers.

Aramis noticed, too. "When we're done here, y—you," a full-bodied shiver wracked his frame, "you may w-want to tie me to my horse bef-fore we ride on." Porthos snapped his gaze up to look him in the eye. "N-not sure h-how well I'll be able to stay in the saddle."

Aramis' teeth were chattering. Porthos swore viciously and jumped to his feet.

"I'm such an idiot," he chastised himself as he moved swiftly back to his saddle. He pulled his woolen blanket from his pack and returned. "Should'a done this before. You're cold—too cold."

The larger Musketeer wrapped the blanket carefully around the marksman's shoulders, grimacing at the way Aramis hissed when the material touched is recently treated shoulder injury. Once it was settled and the blanket flat, Porthos folded it around and over his arms, careful to leave only the wound in his side exposed. Aramis sighed in relief and lay back against the tree, Porthos' hand supporting his movement.

Aramis nodded. "Thank you…" he gazed up at the night sky. "We haven't got all night…"

Of the two, this one frightened him most. Too many vital organs to be messing around with. Porthos knelt once more and began working the blood soaked material from the wound. The viscous fluid would not release so Porthos added water from the skin to loosen it some. This time Aramis did not just his in pain, his body shook and went rigid. Porthos was ready to call a rest when a bloodied hand grabbed his and yanked.

Dumbfounded, Porthos startled gaze went from the bloodied cloth in his hand to Aramis. He wanted to rail at him for interfering, for causing himself further pain, for… His thoughts trailed off when he looked at his friend.

"S-slow," Aramis blinked heavily at him, "is n-not always best."

"Well you could'a warned me," Porthos growled, tossing the soaked cloth aside with no small amount of annoyance. "Scared me half to death."

"Sorry.."

Porthos rolled his eyes. "No you're not, but if it feels better sayin' it…"

"It does." Aramis grinned tiredly. "Oft' times 'tis easier to beg forgiveness than permission."

"Yeah, yeah," Porthos leaned into get a better look at the wound. "Good thing you're hurt already or I'd've punched you." He grabbed another cloth to clean the slowly trickling blood and assessed the damage. The hole was neat and puckered, but even with the moonlight, it was hard to tell much else.

As before, he poured good measure of water on the wound, keeping his mind on his work, not on the way Aramis pressed hard into the tree, as if to escape the discomfort. The flesh surrounding the hole twitched as he blotted at the surface to remove the excess, then pressed it against the wound once more to staunch blood flow and to keep it as clean as possible.

"Going to ha- have to use the pliers, I th-think," Aramis instructed, taking charge of the bandage and keeping it pressed to his side.

Porthos nodding, sitting back on his heels. He stared at the mess of medical implements on the ground, his mind going completely blank. Which one? Where to start, his mind tumbled. They all looked like tools of torment, but he knew that in the right hand, they were salvation. But where to start?

"That one…" Aramis indicated, his voice breathy, a bloodied, shaky finger pointed at one of the tools. "Extractor-er-pliers to d-dig out the ball."

Porthos' brow furrowed as he picked up the tool and examined it. "Hey," he turned it in his hand. "Isn't this the thing you used to pull my tooth last year?"

Aramis lifted his head and gazed glassily at the tool. "Ah," he grinned slowly, "you remember that do you?"

"Yeah," Porthos rubbed his jaw, casting a mild glare at his friend, "and I remember getting punched that night too."

Aramis studied him a moment. "Truly, you have the most remarkable memory of that night for one whose brain was so recently addled." He lay his head back against the tree with a sigh, seemingly too exhausted to hold it any longer. "In my defense," he grimaced at the pull on his side, "we had hoped the blow would dislodge the offending tooth and avoid the pulling altogether. But that, sadly, was not to be. So…"

In the face of his friend's pain and his waning strength, Porthos set about cleaning the pliers as best he could, lamenting the absence of the flask once more. It was a piss-poor job but he did the best he could, all the while feeling the weight of Aramis' stare on his every move. When he finished, he hesitated, noting how the dull metal appeared black in the moonlight… and that his hand trembled at what he was about to do.

After removing the loose dressing, he glanced quickly at Aramis. The injured man's head was back, eyes closed, lips moving saying words he could not hear. Porthos gripped the pliers in his too sweaty hands and took a deep breath before bending close to the wound and sinking the tool into the small cavern.

The air seemed to go out of the marksman's lungs as he stiffened; Porthos ignored it. When Porthos began shifting the tool around his insides, searching for the ball, and Aramis suddenly began digging his heels into the ground, Porthos forced himself to ignore that, too. That and the steady stream of whispered Spanish curses.

"Mierda…" Aramis whispered, so faintly Porthos almost missed it. "Cabron."

The desire to hurry, to stop causing his friend pain was nearly overwhelming. Still, Porthos forced himself to move with great patience and care, the invasive metal sinking into flesh inch by painful inch. Sweat rolled down his face and he resisted the urge to close his eyes to enhance his sensibility. If he didn't stop at exactly the right spot…

It wasn't until Porthos felt the implement bump against something foreign that he knew he'd found his target. Opening the extractor, he managed to secure it on his first grab, his grip tightening, his arm ready to withdraw, only to feel it slip out from between the implement's paddled ends.

"Shit…" Porthos whispered, his shoulders sagging in disappointment, while his hand remained steady. Then he realized something.

The steady stream of invective's earlier, had ceased. Faint words, vaguely familiar phrases drifted around him. Aramis was praying, the words coming out in Latin, broken and stuttering…

"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus…"

It was nearly Porthos' undoing.

Steeling himself, he moved the tool carefully, small adjustments and felt the object once more. This time he eased his grip, clasped the ball and suppressed the desire to squeeze it tight, mindful of the slippery blood. He made to withdraw, careful to keep his path straight and steady. The implement exited the hole, the ball in its grasp and Porthos dropped it to the ground, a trail of blood left in its wake.

He wasted no time in celebration but instead soaked another cloth in more water before pressing it into the torn flesh, blocking out Aramis' grunts of pain. He added another on top and more still, packing the wound before applying pressure to the sensitive flesh. He held it steady, listening to the sound of Aramis' grinding his teeth, his body tense and trembling.

"Almost done," Porthos offered encouragingly. Once he was satisfied with the dressing, he secured the bandages to Aramis side with longer strips. The skin was clammy and altogether too cold, but then, so was Porthos. He couldn't be sure if it was fever or not, knowing time would tell.

Porthos sat back once he was done and exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. Aramis' eyes were closed, his skin too pale in the moonlight and his breathing came in shallow puffs. Using his own shirtsleeve, the only one not saturated in his friend's blood, Porthos wiped at the sweat on Aramis' face and wished fervently they could stay longer to let him rest, sadly knowing they could not.

The marksman's eyes opened slowly. He smiled, patting Porthos clumsily on the arm. "O-over already? B-barely felt 'thing."

"Yeah, yeah." Porthos swallowed hard. "If I never have to do that again, it'll be too bloody soon."

Aramis smiled tiredly. "Hazard of the job, unfortunately." Lifting one shaky hand, he pointed a bloodied finger at the pile of implements Porthos had dumped out earlier. "One of the leather pouches. There's some willow bark for pain."

Worry gnawed at his gut at Aramis actually asking for something to dull his pain, but went did as he was asked and began rifling through the pile. It was a familiar remedy, especially to soldiers refined on the battlefield as they were. Too many times he'd had to taste the bitter bark, when there had been no time to steep it in a proper tea. Chewing the bark wasn't the best method for relief but it was better than none at all.

Porthos gathered the many pouches before him and picked up one after another. Even with the moonlight, he had no idea which one to pick and soon sat back on his haunches and stared at them in confusion.

"They all look the same," he murmured, looking at the marksman questioningly.

Aramis opened his eyes and looked at the small collection. "Not to me." He rolled to his side, grunting at the pull on his injuries and with shaking hands, pressed the tips of his fingers over each pouch before stopping at one. "There. Th—that one." He grabbed the leather container but his hands proved too clumsy to open the ties.

"Let me…," Porthos offered, taking the pouch from him. Undoing the leather thong that kept it closed, he pulled a small piece of bark from inside and instead of handing it to Aramis, leaned over. "Here," he murmured. Aramis opened his mouth obediently and he placed the piece of bark on his tongue.

While Aramis' rested, Porthos moved back to their mounts and grabbed Aramis' cape from behind his saddle. "Lets get your cape on, eh?" He knelt next to his friend and positioned the garment around his shoulders. "It's a far sight better for riding than the blanket, and it'll keep you warm besides."

Aramis nodded and Porthos worked carefully to fit the garment securely around him, moving the blanket aside. When they were done, the marksman was settled back against the tree, panting, face drawn tight with pain.

Doing his best to ignore his friend's discomfort, and the helplessness he felt at allaying it, Porthos began gathering up the remaining bandages and cleaning up their makeshift camp. Whenever their foe set out in earnest –and neither had any doubt they would– it was best to leave little sign that they'd stopped here.

Porthos stared forlornly at the scant amount of bandages in their kit and weighed their number against the fact that he'd need to change those bandages again soon. He did a quick inventory in his mind and concluded they still plenty of clothing in their bags that they could use as bandages later.

Gathering up the medicinal herbs, Porthos huffed. "There's got to be dozens of these little satchels," he noted, putting the various pouches into the saddle bag last, "and they all look the same, even in the light of day. How the hell did you know which one had the willow bark?"

"A little trick the monks taught me at the abbey when I studied there as a boy. I notched each bag with a knife, marking them with a different carving to indicate the contents. I can find them easily in any situation."

"Clever."

Aramis closed his eyes as he leaned back against the tree. "We must leave soon…" he said with a sigh.

"Yeah," Porthos groused as he worked. "I know."

Grabbing up the repacked kit and water pouches, he rose and moved back to their horses, realizing his own legs felt shaky and his hands numb. After placing the packs behind their saddles and tying them off to stay in place, he went to his own mount and pulled a length of twine from his pack. Stuffing the used blanket back in its place, he closed and tied the cover down. A sound behind caught his attention. He spun, drawing his pistol in one smooth motion.

Eyes widening, he vaulted quickly to where Aramis was trying to stand. Free hand pressed against the tree, his other wrapped tightly around his midsection to clutch at his wounded side, he wobbled in place, calling to Porthos in hushed whispers.

"Aramis…" Porthos responded anxiously, reaching his friend's side. "What are you doing?" Unsure where he could place his hand in support of his friend, he chose to hover close, noting the Musketeer's head was up and he was staring off into the night. "What is it?"

"We need to go. Now." Aramis struggled to turn and get his feet solidly beneath him.

"Easy," Porthos soothed looking away only when he was assured that Aramis had stilled. He turned to look around them, searching and shook his head. "I don't see or hear anything."

"It's what you don't hear," Aramis breathed quietly.

While nothing but the sound of Aramis' harsh breathing met his ears, he knew better than to dismiss his friend's instincts. They'd long ago learned that Aramis' uncanny sense for danger, while downright unsettling at times, had proved invaluable. It had also saved their necks more often than not.

Porthos froze and listened. The night was unnaturally quiet. "Shit."

"My point precisely," Aramis said, eyes gazing intensely at the forest beyond. "Now can we go?" He tried to leave the support of the tree only to have his knees gave out.

Porthos just managed to catch him. "Bloody idiot. Let me do the work, yeah?"

Damn the man's pride if he didn't seem to hesitate for a bit before giving a quick nod. Porthos rolled his eyes before grabbing one of Aramis' arms across his shoulder to take his weight and helped him to his horse. That was the easy part. Getting Aramis into the saddle proved more difficult, but they managed and once he was settled, Porthos made quick work lashing him to his saddle, looping the rope around the pommel and back around his waist several times before knotting the end to the pommel once more.

Aramis waited patiently, hunched over, grimacing in pain but his head was up and he looked alert to their surroundings. One of his hands stayed close to the butt of his pistol the entire time, knowing that with his back turned, Porthos was more vulnerable. Once the final knots were secured, Porthos lay a hand on his friend's arm.

When their eyes met this time, there were no words. Porthos' gaze silently told his friend to hang on, that he was sorry, that this never should've happened. It hung in the air between them and finally, as if in response, Aramis nodded and Porthos responded in kind. Moving to his horse, the dark skinned musketeer mounted, grabbed both sets of reins once more and hoped they hadn't remained there too long. Hoped that Aramis was just being overly cautious, that no one was tracking them.

As they broke the trees cautiously, seconds before he gigged their mounts to a gallop, he swore he heard a voice, and someone shouting. And then they were swallowed into the night and the cacophony of frantic hoof beats yet again.

It was just before dawn when d'Artagnan cast a careful glance at Treville's window before he crept out of his room and made his way to the stables. The ease with which he went undetected by the sentry on duty left little doubt to the Captain's absence this morning, though he shook his head in annoyance at the lapse in security.

Once inside the stables, he moved through the gloom of the interior, squinting into its depths. He moved on instinct to his horse's stall, smiling at the animal's welcoming nicker.

A familiar voice spoke quietly from the darkness. "Disobeying a direct order, I see."

Stumbling to a halt, d'Artagnan cursed softly. "Athos…" he turned to face his senior musketeer, hand clutching his heart. "You trying to scare me into an early grave?"

"Scared of the dark. Interesting." A small lamp appeared in the darkness, the light increasing slowly to reveal Athos near an empty stall, his hand slowly adjusting the lever just enough to illuminate a small area of the barn. "I think Treville needs to be informed of this."

D'Artagnan would have given him a sour look but the mere mention of their captain struck fear in him. "Don't tell the captain."

"That you're afraid of the dark?"

"That I'm— wait." The young man's brow furrowed. "What are you doing here?"

Athos shrugged. "Disobeying a direct order." His face broke out into a grim smile, far too worried to be anything more.

D'Artagnan echoed his concern and exhaled loudly. "I couldn't sleep. Do you think the Captain would be terribly cross with us if we just rode out now?"

Athos rolled his eyes up as if to search for an answer. "Yes," he responded quickly. "Although cross is probably too tame a word."

"Yeah, probably." d'Artagnan rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, the tension that had built up over the last several hours draining some. "So," he flapped his hands out at his side, "now what?"

"Not much left, really," Athos turned and nodded at the gear stowed in the corner behind him. "Our gear is packed and ready to go. I've cleaned our tack. Twice. Brushed both our horses. Twice. Caught the guard napping. Twice… and promptly let him continue."

D'Artagnan canted his head at the older man. "You didn't wake him? Chastise him?"

"Of course not," he winked at the Gascon. "I was expecting company."

Thoroughly chagrinned, d'Artagnan nodded. "Well, he was at least up and walking by the time I came along. Not very alert, though. Might as well have been sleeping."

Athos nodded and grabbed his hat. "Let us hope so. I'd hate for us to be caught as we make our way back to my room."

"What are we doing there?" he asked, watching Athos pick up the small lamp and lift the glass.

"Treville gave me a map. It has the route Aramis and Porthos took." He adjusted the lever and the light began dimming. "I suggest we see if we can deduce the route they may have taken so we have a plan when we leave in the morning."

They made it to Athos' room, evading discovery with ease and spread out the map of the area south of Paris to plan their route. They mulled over and discussed the possible stops Aramis and Porthos would likely have made. Athos, knowing them best, had some insight as to what route they would choose, pointing out the topography that would offer the best sources of cover for any eventuality, whether that be from inclement weather, or a bad element. So it was decided fairly quickly and with great certainty that they would head east.

A knock at the door startled them from their planning. A very tired but determined Serge stood at the entry, apron covered in flour and other stains neither could identify.

"Be at my table within the hour," he ordered gruffly. "Bread's nearly ready and you'd better eat it all for the fuss it cost me to be up and about at this ungodly hour."

He'd just turned to leave when he stopped and leveled a warning glare at them. "And don't you dare come back without those boys," he growled affectionately, wagging a flour covered finger at them. "God…" the old cook muttered, wiping his hands ineffectively on his apron and managing only to smear the substance about. "You lot are going to be the death of me," he grumbled before turning to shuffle off.

They'd made a valiant effort at breakfast but succeeded in only swallowing a few bites. Keeping up appearances for their rapt audience - Treville who'd taken breakfast watch on the balcony outside his office and glanced at them occasionally - they did what they could. However, in the moments when he'd been distracted, they dumped whole portions of their meal to the many chickens that clucked about the table.

Finally, they were given the nod. They darted from the table toward the paddock only to stop steps from the table when the stable boy came out leading both of their horses, a sheepish smile on his face.

"Figured you'd want to be on your way."

D'Artagnan smiled. "Thank you Jacques. Did you—"

"I found all the accouterments just as you left them earlier. They're all packed and ready."

Athos patted the boy on the shoulder. "Thank you," he offered sincerely.

The boy nodded and stood back, allowing them to check their things one last time

"Here." A cloth pack, tied in string, and a skin appeared over his shoulder and Athos turned. Serge pointed at the pack. "Just some extra food for the road." The old cook looked behind him, noting Treville stalking toward them and leaned in conspiratorially. "The bits the chickens didn't get." He winked.

Athos would have grinned if he weren't feeling a thousand things at once. Anxious. Worried. Eager. Frustrated. Tired. Out of his mind with worry. "Thank you," he muttered thickly.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" Treville asked. He looked at d'Artagnan as he mounted. "Both of you?"

D'Artagnan adjusted the reins in his hands. "I can't rest not knowing whether or not they're okay. I can worry just as easily out there as I can here. I'd prefer it, in fact."

Treville nodded. "That wasn't the question, but I understand." He turned to Athos. "And you're still convinced they're in some sort of trouble?"

"I am sure of only one thing," he gazed steadily at his commander. "If I stay here, and they do not return by nightfall when I could have put some distance into finding them a day sooner... I would never forgive myself."

Treville respected Athos' instincts. "I have other men who're more recovered than the two of you. I should send them," he grumbled.

Athos stopped checking his gear and looked at the Captain, searching for any weight to his comment. Finding none, one side of his face quirked. "Who better to find them than the men who know them best?"

Treville grunted noncommittally. "And if you meet up with them on the road and they are fine?" Not that he believed it; Athos could see this for what it was.

Athos looped the reins over the animal's head. "Then we shall say we were out exercising our horses to get back into shape." He grabbed the pommel, slipped one foot into the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle. "And we shall speak nothing of the intuitive feelings that lead us to believe they were in some mortal peril."

It was meant as an attempt at levity but fell flat. Not a one of them believed this would be the case, despite their hope it would be. Athos knew the captain best and it was clear to him, and he suspected d'Artagnan too, that he was more concerned that he'd admit.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "There is also the small matter of the guilt we feel." He looked sorrowfully at the Captain. "Aramis and Porthos have shouldered more than their fair share of the burden these last few weeks. And I…" he looked sheepishly at Athos and give a helpless shrug. "I miss them."

Athos didn't deny his own feelings on that score. "Three missions in a fortnight." His lips thinned to a tight line. "It's—"

"Unfortunate but necessary," Treville stated without hesitation. "Athos, if there had been any other way…"

Seeing his commander's guilt, Athos lightened. "The burden of command sir, not something easily shouldered."

Treville nodded and stepped back. "Best be gone. Take breaks and rest as often as you need. Remember, you're no use to them if you relapse because you pushed too hard. Don't throw caution to the wind until you're sure."

"We'll be careful," Athos gathered his reins. "When are we ever not?" he added with a devilish grin.

Porthos pushed their horses beyond what was wise but was by far, necessary. He kept them off the main roads as much as possible, and only prayed they'd not encountered the odd rabbit hole, root or boulder that might knock one of their horses off balance.

It had been a gamble, riding at night, but there had been little choice in the matter. They'd ducked into a thick copse of trees and watched a group of men thunder past them earlier, and Porthos had guessed their pursuers to number close to a dozen. A dozen men with a dozen fresh, well rested horses. And no injured, he thought glancing back at Aramis.

The miracle of it all was that somehow Aramis had managed to stay in the saddle. Every time Porthos had drawn a halt and searched him for sign of life, the marksman had managed a grunt or moan in response. It had sufficed, though just barely, and they'd been forced to continue.

Though both Aramis' injury and their horse's exhaustion had been perilous, the night ride had kept them some precious few steps ahead of their pursuers. With a clear trail and a mind set on the chase, the Marquis' men would surely have overtaken them otherwise. As it was, Porthos managed to evade their detection.

With day dawning, however, there were new decisions to be made. Continue moving or find them someplace to stop, someplace defensible where they could make a stand. His mind started listing the defensible signs to be on the look for, all the while picking his way carefully through the gray dawn of a new day.

"P'rthos..." a weak voice called to him.

Lost in thought, the larger man didn't hear him call at first, but startled when he noticed Aramis' horse jog unnaturally close, bumping his mount. Reining in his horse easily, he drew Aramis' closer and bent down to eye his friend. "Aramis?"

The barely conscious Musketeer's head slowly turned until his pain-filled gaze locked on him. "There-" he managed to lift one tangled finger, covered with horsehair and crusted blood. "Tha- that way."

Porthos sat back and looked at the lower valley that Aramis indicated. He immediately started shaking his head in dissent. "No. No way." The valley was massive but he could not tell how deep; the basin blanketed by a fog so thick he could not see ground below. "The pain must be getting' to you. We go down there, we risk our horses far more than we already have."

Before he could answer, Aramis grunted and folded tight into himself as a wave of pain overtook him. Porthos lay a hand gently on his back, waiting for it to pass. Beneath his fingers, he could feel the trembling muscles even through the thick gloves.

When Aramis could speak again, he looked at Porthos with wide, imploring eyes. "The... Marquis' men," he ground out through gritted teeth, "wi-will have the s-same pr'blm."

Porthos shook his head adamantly. "No!" He glanced again at the steep entry they would have to traverse. "If we were both healthy— which we aren't— maybe. That path is far too steep even for me, let alone an injured man."

Thinking the argument done, Porthos stood in his saddle to increase his range of vision and surveyed their surroundings. "Perhaps if we found a different way down—"

If it had happened to someone acquainted with Aramis only a few days, Porthos would have understood the short-sightedness of his action. But not him. Not the one man who'd been dealing with his friend's particular brand of stubbornness and stupidity for more years than he could count on both hands and feet.

So it only stood to reason that Aramis, injured, barely conscious, tied to his saddle to keep him from falling, stubborn fool of a friend, would simply ignore Porthos' perfectly reasonable argument and just do as he pleased. Because that was the sane thing to do.

The rein he'd been clutching was jerked from his hand and Aramis' horse began moving steadily toward the edge of the valley trail. Porthos realized nearly too late what he meant to do; he would go down despite his objections.

"Aramis!" he shouted and reached out to snag his horse's reins. The animal shied almost violently sideways and nearly fell over the edge of the drop off.

Porthos pulled hard on its reins, praying that Aramis would not be unseated as he worked to bring the animal back from the precipice. When both horses and riders were safely back and calmed, he sighed with relief.

"Dammit, Aramis," he growled leaning down to stare angrily at his friend. "Enough. No. We need to go a different way."

Aramis didn't flinch from his friend, staring calmly back at him. "They'll f-find us before we can do that." He took a shuttering breath. "You know as well as I, we- we're moving too slow." A sudden flash of pain gripped him and he grimaced, turning to bury his face into his horse's mane as he fought to ride it out.

Porthos placed a supportive hand on Aramis head, stroking his sweat soaked hair in hopes of offering some solace for his ailing friend. "Aramis…" he whispered quietly. "You're not strong enough for that kind of riding. Our horses barely are."

Turning his head to face his friend but unable or unwilling to lift this head, Aramis swallowed hard. "I haven't mu-much choice, have I? It's th-that or you leave me here and ride alone."

Porthos hated it, but knew he was right. If the trip down killed them, or Aramis, at least they died trying. There was no way in hell he would leave his brother behind to fight them alone.

Straightening in the saddle, Porthos looked around them. A gray, cloud covered sun cast a murky light on the dew covered grass and their surroundings. They'd left a trail a blind man could follow but if they could make that trail more difficult to manage, they might have a chance.

Porthos glanced back at his friend and conceded the point. "Fine, we do this your way. But you bloody well better hold on to that horse."

Aramis had the audacity to grin back at him. "You-you keep saying that as if I haven't managed it thus far. Besides," he fumbled with the bindings, "the ropes are merely for recreational purposes, really."

Porthos grinned back, stunned at the resolve of his friend to joke at a time like this. He took a deep breath, grabbed the reins of Aramis' horse and dug his heels lightly into his mount's side as together, they picked their way carefully down into the valley.

TBC….

NOTE: Okay, so here's the thing about me. I like the hurt-- uh, of course I do-- but I just LOVE the comfort and the medical-care-scene. I know. It may read a bit slow, slow down the pace but I love it so much. All that delicious angst surrounded in a great big goop of pain. *sighs* So you see, I can't apologize. I'd be lying if I did. :D And I will never lie to you. Ever.

 

And if you are writing without a beta, find one soon. They are the caffeine and happiness of writing. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 

Athos raised a hand in the air. Together he and d’Artagnan slowed until their mounts came to a fidgety stop. More accustomed to the gallop of the last two hours, the horses danced anxiously beneath them, eager to return to their earlier pace.

“What is it?” d’Artagnan asked, reining his horse hard left to bring him under control. The animal responded immediately and the Gascon rewarded him with a pat on the neck.

Athos’ gaze was locked on the road ahead. “Listen,” he hissed, head cocked to one side.

Then the Gascon heard it; the thunder of horses’ hooves. Now attuned to the clatter, he looked at the way ahead. “It’s getting louder. Coming our way?”

Athos nodded. “I think so.” He looked at the younger man, mouth in a grim line. “That’s a good number of horses and in a very big hurry.”

“Should we get off the road?” He started looking around. “Conceal ourselves?”

Before the older Musketeer could answer, the group of riders crested the hill, spying them almost immediately. A man in the lead pointed their direction, clouds of dust billowing as they drew to a stop. There appeared to be a heated discussion, if the constant gestures in their direction were anything to go by, their presence was the subject.

“That is apparently,” Athos drolled, “no longer an option available to us.”

D’Artagnan took the news in stride, as he’d hoped. He leaned forward in the saddle, studying the group. “They do not appear happy to see us.”

“No,” Athos shifted his reins to his left in order to keep his right hand free, trusting d’Artagnan would make a similar preparation. “They most certainly do not.”

With the practiced eye of a seasoned tactician, the swordsman surveyed the group. He counted more than a dozen men, one among them standing out more so than the rest due to his fiery red hair. Red seemed to do most of the talking, and while the distance was too great to make out his words, the gist was clear; trouble had indeed found them. Then as one, every man in the group turned and with Red setting the pace, advanced on them with a speed wholly unnecessary but easily meant to intimidate.

Athos knew his protege's first inclination and immediately reached out to stop d’Artagnan from throwing back his cape in readiness for a fight. The Gascon cast him a questioning look.

“Make ready in secret,” Athos squeezed his arm beneath his cloak, “but otherwise, we do not reveal ourselves.”

D’Artagnan hesitated, his gaze shifting back to the men. He then nodded, albeit reluctantly and settled, though his back was stiff and his countenance alert to the possibility of a threat.

Then Red seemed intent on testing Athos command of the boy when he jerked his pistol from its scabbard. Like dutiful soldiers, his men responded in kind, pistols clearing leather at a distance too close for comfort and with a shout of solidarity too determined to be ignored. Athos swore in his head but did not flinch.

“Athos…” d’Artagnan said, warning in his voice this time.

“I know,” Athos murmured without taking his eyes off Red and his men. He pulled on the reins to keep his horse steady, the animal growing agitated in the face of the advancing horsemen. “Hold. Do not tip our hand just yet. Lets see what it is they want.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” the Gascon chided, gazing tensely at the approaching riders. To his credit, however, he did as he was instructed.

“Fair point,” Athos nodded. “But note their numbers compared to ours, d’Artagnan; I wager that is a more significant point.” He glanced at the Gascon to make certain he got his intent. “Whatever happens, just follow my lead.”

d’Artagnan glanced at the swiftly approaching riders and then at the Musketeer and gave a swift but tense nod. Their capes remained in place, their pauldrons and identities concealed… for now.

Red pulled up within a few feet of the Musketeers, while the others dropped back enough to spread out and flank them on either side. Plumes of road dust kicked up from their horses’ hooves, the dirt coating the warm air, marking their approach and subsequent close distance as aggressive as it was worrisome. Athos realized this man was clearly used to intimidating those he came in contact with.

“Who are you?” Red demanded, shifting in his saddle and drawing to full height. “State your business!” As the dust cleared, and the sun broke through, the light licked at the waves of red hair, setting it almost ablaze like fire.

Pulling out a delicate linen piece that he usually used to wipe his nose, Athos brought it to his mouth, his face contorting into a sour look, as if the tone the man had used had caused him no small amount of nausea. “I am not accustomed to being addressed in such a manner, monsieur. Who asks such bold questions?”

By his side, Athos could see the fleeting look of surprise that crossed D’Artagnan’s eyes, before he wisely wiped it away. In the mere blink of an eye, gone was the somber and often taciturn swordsman, replaced by a harmless continence. Neither his words nor the manner with which he slouched in his saddle were typical Athos behavior, which was exactly what the older Musketeer had intended.

Red leaned forward, the predatory look on his face showing that he had smelled an easy prey in both riders. “These are my Lord’s lands,” he hissed, aiming his pistol at Athos. “You will answer what I ask, or,” he leveled his pistol at Athos, “forfeit your lives this instant.”

Athos gave a very theatrical shudder, before slumping even further in his saddle. “I am Poupon Renoir, a student of the great master Rembrandt, and this is my apprentice, Planchet,” he said, lifting his chin up in pride. “Surely your Lord has heard of my master, yes? We are on our way to Orleans, to the Duke’s palace itself!”

The blank look that answered told Athos that the name meant absolutely nothing to the man in charge and that he was, therefore, safe to continue this charade and made-up persona all he wanted. And if he was fortunate, perhaps use it to gain some information. People had a tendency to open their mouths and let their secrets escape when they assumed to be talking to idiots.

“Unless your master makes pistols that never miss or possesses the power to guess the whereabouts of fugitives of justice, I care little for his name,” Red answer with a sneer.

Athos raised an eyebrow. His family had actually paid a Dutch artist for some portraits… the man hadn't been that bad, well… save for his breath. Summoning the most offended look he could muster he opened his mouth to defend his master, only to flap it close. “Fugitives, you say?” he asked, adopting a slightly nervous, panic-stricken disposition. “Ar—are there criminals on the loose?”

Athos cast about nervously trying his best to look fearful, catching d’Artagnan’s eye and encouraging him likewise. Quick on the uptake, the boy parroted the older Musketeer’s actions and emotions, trying his best to look worried and scared.

  
The group of riders visibly relaxed, their leader scoffing at them. “You might say that. We’re searching for two men who claim to be heading to Paris. One a large African mongrel with an earring in one ear, the other a fussy looking man, smaller in stature, wears a showy feather in his hat.”

“My god,” Athos pulled a kerchief from one pocket and held it to his mouth a moment, hoping he looked taken to fits of apoplexy as he gazed around again. “Whatever have they done to warrant such fervor in pursuit?”  
The leader hesitated a moment.

“They cheated the Marquis at cards—” another answered, this man to Red’s left. He was easily silenced with a glare from their leader.

“Cards?” Athos froze then gazed at Red, tamping down on the prickle of anger that began rolling through him. “Well, that,” he managed lightly, “seems hardly enough to run a man down…”

“And shot the tavern keeper,” Red added a bit too quickly. “And the fancier man, he ravaged his serving girl.”

“Ravaged.” Athos repeated. Now he knew the man was lying. Cheating, perhaps, but shooting someone in cold blood and— “You mean he—”

“They were heading to Paris,” Red interrupted, purposely ending further explanation.

D’Artagnan gasped, clearly getting into the spirit of Athos’ ruse. “We’ve only just left there, four or five hours ago.”

Red leaned forward, gazing intently at them. “Did you happen to notice anyone? One of them would be injured.”

Athos felt d’Artagnan stiffen next to him. “Injured…” he began after a slow deep breath. It was all he could do to not reveal himself and his friend, and challenge the claims against them. Still, he fought down the urge, knowing if this altercation ended badly, they would be of no use to Porthos and Aramis. “What town did you say this all happened in?”

Red looked sharply at Athos. “I didn’t.”

Their gazes locked intensely for a moment, Athos giving no indicator until he finally pressed a hand to his heart. “Oh, I mean nothing by it, just to be certain we avoid it in our travels. Just until the dust settles and these ruffians are apprehended.”  
Red nodded shortly. “Chaîne des Puys, it’s due east of here. Sits on land belonging to the Marquis d'Évreux.”

“And the injured one,” Athos inquired as he rolled the Marquis’ name around in his head, quietly trying to decide if he’d ever heard it before. “Is he badly hurt?” He felt the inquiry was pressing their luck, but it was something they needed desperately to know.

Red’s eyes narrowed at Athos. “For a man who doesn’t care, you ask a lot of questions, monsieur.”

“Oh rest assured, I do not care. Not in the strictest sense. I just know that, like animals, the more seriously wounded they are, the more desperate they become.” He looked at d'Artagnan. “Shouldn’t want to meet that kind of man on the road.” He offered a small shiver to accentuate the point and the Gascon nodded in agreement.

Red seemed to accept the explanation and shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. After what they did, I just mean to see they don’t draw another breath to do worse.”

“Good,” d’Artagnan offered by way of support, though his tone drew Athos attention. “France needs less bad men in it.” While complementary to Red and his men, the comment was laced with a much darker undertone. “I should like to skewer a few myself someday.”

Athos glanced warningly at the Gascon but the boy had an impertinent stare locked on the leader.

“Ah the foolishness of youth…” Athos let out with a sigh. Nudging his horse sideways to bump the boy’s mount. It had the desired effect when d’Artagnan’s horse shied, jerking the rider along with it and breaking their little staring gam. “Always so eager to rush to their deaths.” Rather than one of rebuke, he pinned the Gascon with a more pointed gaze. “Planchet, what of those two men you saw earlier?”

To his credit, d’Artagnan’s double take was barely noticeable. “Hmm…?” Athos raised his eyebrows encouragingly. “Oh, my God, yes!” he offered brightly. “I did not wish to gawk but it most certainly could have been them.”

“What?” the leader pressed. “Where was this? Did you see where they went?

D’Artagnan shook his head. “No, but they did seem in quite the hurry…and thinking on it, one seemed unable to sit his saddle properly.”

“Did you get a good look?”

Athos shook his head. “I’m sorry. We were too far away; you see my squire’s horse had picked up a stone. We decided to seek shade away from the road while we attended the matter.”

“My apologies,” d’Artagnan put in, drawing Athos’ gaze. “To think; I chafed at leaving the main road. Now, can you imagine if we’d been set upon by those men?”

Athos fought the grin of pride; he was going along nicely. “Indeed. They looked quite desperate.”

The band’s leader motioned to his left and a man moved his mount alongside him. “Ride back to the Marquis. Let’m know to head this direction. We have them now.” He looked back at Athos and tried for a politeness that did not appear to come naturally.  
“Gentlemen,” he nodded, clearly ready to leave.

“Just a moment more…,” Athos called out as they made to pass by, Red slowing his horse but only just. “Would you know where we can find fresh mounts? You see, I simply must reach the Duke’s palace before dark and our horses are in no way up to the task at present.”

“There’s a farm two hours ahead,” Red called over his shoulder, an odd, cruel sort of glint in his eye as he spoke. “Leave the road at the large bolder and head southeast.”

D’Artagnan pasted on a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Merci, monsieur.”

With that, the group of men struck out, leaving two frustrated and angry Musketeers in their wake.

“That was Porthos he described,” D’Artagnan offered, his voice tense and tight.

“And Aramis,” Athos acknowledged while watching the retreating group of men. The thunderous sound of their horses’ hooves were fading in the distance.

“Injured? Athos, we have to find them before—”

“I know,” he said and reined his horse around to continue their journey. “But first, we have a stop to make.”

“What? Where are we going?” d’Artagnan asked, urging his horse to keep pace with Athos’.

“If we are to reach our friends before the Marquis and his men, we’ll need fresh horses to do it.”

“But we haven’t the slightest clue where to look!”

“We’ll ride to that town where it all started, figure it out from there.”

D’Artagnan looked over his shoulder, the group of riders out of sight. “Do you think we can?” He looked back at Athos.

“I think we must,” Athos finished, his voice edged with a steely determination that he hoped conveyed his message. If their friends were going to survive, they would have to be there for them and there was no time to waste worrying.

D’Artagnan nodded in agreement, the motion short and choppy then dug his heels into his horse's side. Together, they moved, eyes scanning ahead for the boulder, eager to find fresh horses and renewed speed.

Porthos breathed a sigh of relief as their horses finally reached level ground.  He reined in and wiped the sweat from his brow, grimacing as he felt even more trickle down his back beneath the many layers of cloth and leather. He looked from where Aramis lay hunched over his mount and caught him staring exhaustedly back at him.

“If I never have to do something like that again, it’ll be too soon,” he said, shaking his head.

The way down had been every bit as treacherous as he’d anticipated. As if Aramis’ injuries hadn’t made it difficult enough, the low visibility had made the trek downright terrifying, the thick layer of fog presenting a nearly blind descent. They had left it nearly entirely to their horses to navigate the best path down.

At one point, the grade had become so steep, they’d had to lean back to keep from pitching forward and for Aramis, the motion had been excruciating. Porthos had tried to angle them horizontally along the terrain as much as he could, but the journey had been a nightmare, causing his heart to hammer harder than any time since their exit from the village last night.

Between the growing worry over Aramis’ ability to stay in the saddle when the ground went nearly vertical beneath them, and his constant concern over the sure-footedness of their mounts against their own exhaustion, Porthos had to force himself to breathe evenly instead of hold the air in his lungs.

At the bottom of the rise, as they picked their way along the valley floor, moving deeper into the rocky bottom, Porthos felt a sudden rush of lightheadedness that all but unseated him. He pulled their horses to a stop and clutched the pommel for balance, taking slow, even breaths.

“God,” he muttered and wiped at the sweat he suddenly realized was pouring down his forehead. When the world finally stopped teetering, he exhaled and straightened in the saddle. He looked back to catch Aramis eying him curiously. “‘M’ alright. Don’t worry ‘bout it. Just need to take a breath,” he hedged. In his heart, however, he knew it was more. Twenty-four hours without sleep at a constant state of alert…their journey had taken its toll on him and he was starting to feel its effects.

The moment soon passed and they continued to pick their way, the day dawning noticeably warmer as they progressed. They plodded along, Porthos leading, Aramis’ horse following on its own. The big Musketeer no longer needed to encourage the animal to follow; it had grown accustomed to moving when Porthos’ horse moved.  For that reason, he hadn’t realized he no longer had the animal’s lead in hand, nor did he notice when the horse decided at some point to slow to a stop.

It wasn’t until he heard a rustling behind him and a groan of pain that he stopped. He turned in time to see Aramis slipping from his horse. His breath caught. “Aramis,” he muttered in a panic. Wheeling his horse around, he dug heels frantically into its side, sending the startled animal bolting forward.

The ropes had loosened and Aramis now hung at an awkward angle from the saddle. All of his weight was on one side of the horse, pulling perilously on both of them. Between the marksman’s weight unbalancing them and the horse’s exhaustion, the beast's legs were buckling from the pull and unnatural strain on its neck, threatening to collapse on its rider.

Porthos jerked the reins and as the horse skittered to a stop he was out of the saddle before it fully stilled, moving faster than a man of his size should have been able, scrambling to the aid of both man and horse.

"Aramis!" he called as he grabbed the animal's bridle and shoved his shoulder beneath the horse and pushed hard against its neck, trying to support it. The injured man’s hat lay on the ground revealing more of his face; Aramis’ eyes remained closed.

The horse whinnied in distress. More of its’ weight shifting onto Porthos as he bowed to take it. Even through his leather’s, Porthos could feel the animal trembling with the exertion of remaining upright.

"Easy boy, easy..." he huffed through gritted teeth, groaning at the increased burden while trying to soothe reassure horse. “I'm going t'help you. Just do us a favor and hold still."

Unable to get to his main gauche, Porthos bent as far as he dared but just enough to pull a small sharp knife from a hideout sheath in his boot. He then began sawing furiously at the rope connecting the injured man to his mount. "Aramis..." he called evenly to his friend, shooting a glance at him. There was no answer.

Porthos shook his head in frustration. When the horse left rear leg trembled and left the ground, a clearer signal the animal was losing ground, he swore. "No..." he growled, teeth gritted.

Redoubling his efforts, Porthos shoved his own weight into the horse's’ side and pushed, using more of his flagging strength to hold the animal upright. He was rewarded when the horse got his legs beneath him again and seemed to stand. After what seemed like an eternity, the ropes shattered beneath his blade and as Aramis slowly dropped, Porthos just managed to release the horse and break the marksman’s fall before he could land in an ungainly heap.

Sighing in relief, Porthos sank to the ground next to him, pulling his friend into his lap and trying to still his own racing heart. When he felt more in control he opened his eyes to gaze at his friend, noting his flushed face and uneven breathing.

"Aramis," he called quietly and rolled him until his head rested gently in his lap. The heat was the first thing that struck him; fever. It rolled off him in waves. He was burning up.

“Damnit,” Porthos growled, fear gripping his heart. He shook the marksman as hard as he dared. “Don’t do this to me. Aramis!”

The big Musketeer had nearly given up hope when he felt Aramis shift. The marksman‘s eyes slowly opened, focus glassy but staring straight up at him.

"Oh thank God," Porthos said gruffly. "Don't you ever do that to me again. Understand?" he demanded without malice.

“You-you thanked God. Heard you,” Aramis whispered, a weak grin tipping one side of his face. Despite the sickness, there was a spark of humor in his pain laden eyes.

“Yeah well, I’d thank Him more if He got us out of this mess,” he growled sternly.

Aramis gazed about them feebly. “We… are alive. Much has been done a’ready.”  He looked curiously at the larger man. “Though w-why am I… on the ground?”

“‘Cause your damn horse nearly collapsed on top of you. Don’t suppose you remember that. You were having such a nice rest.”

“Yes well--,” he swallowed, eyes blinking slowly, “can’t d-do everything.”

Porthos would’ve laughed if he’d had the strength but instead, he glanced around them, feeling completely lost. “I’ve…” he shook his head, “I’ve not idea where we are.”

“Have fa—faith, mon ami.”

"I have faith in what I can see and feel,” Porthos responded, taking off one of his gloves to feel his friend’s heated flesh. “And what I feel now is you burning up." He shook his head and looked back the way they’d come, uncertainty and worry squeezing tightly in his chest. "Can’t go back. Never should’a come this way. Now I--” he was panting now, the apprehension dizzying, “I don't know what to do. I--"

Something smacked against Porthos’ chest and he looked down. Aramis hand rest on the leather doublet, below his heart and he stared up at Porthos with suddenly steady eyes. "We need she-shelter... find," Aramis took a shuddering breath. "Herbs n’m-my kit… they’ll help… f-fever. Build fire…" 

Porthos watched Aramis eyes slide shut, his hand becoming lax against the dark skinned Musketeer’s chest. The few words alone had cost him dearly.

“Shelter, eh?” Porthos murmured. “But where…?” He straightened and looked at where the horses stood. Their heads were down, sides heaving and coats gleaming with sweat and for the first time he noticed the white foam on their necks. Even if he wanted to go back, their animals were not up to the task.

There was no choice really. Keep moving and hope for divine intervention. The idea that such a thought had occurred to him, made Porthos bark out a slightly hysterical laugh. 

“Alright then,” he nodded and slowly, carefully moved Aramis from his lap until he was settled gently on the ground. “Best get to it.” He struggled to his feet, the world suddenly tilting at an alarming angle.

He blinked rapidly, the sight of their horses swimming, waving and blurring before him and he stumbled forward. He reached out anxiously for the animal, for something solid to steady himself, grabbing at air several times before his hand finally landed on horseflesh and saddle. One hand curled into the animal’s mane and the other grabbed onto leather and he closed his eyes, leaning into the beast, but even in darkness dizziness swamped him. Eyes closed he took several deep breaths.

“God…” Porthos groaned. “Wha’s wrong with me?” He knew the answer. Knew the tell-tale signs of too much exertion and too little sleep, combined with little food, less water for too long.  He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Aramis upon their arrival to that village that they were nearly done in. Fate simply hadn’t been kind to them, not that it usually was.

But Aramis needed him if they were going to survive and so he stood there, knees locked, focused on remaining upright, on steadying his breathing. In and out, he took it one breath at a time. Blinking to test his vision, test his balance, it wasn’t until something touched his ankle, then enclosed it in a weak, trembling grasp, that Porthos looked down. The ghostly image of Aramis swam into view, his face ghastly white beneath the sheen of fever sweat and his eyes full of heat and concern.

“P’rthos…” the injured Musketeer stared up at him, his body jerking at the constant shivers that wracked his body.

Porthos stared quietly at his friend a moment. Realizing slowly that his friend, driven by worry had dragged himself over to him; that despite his own deteriorating condition, Aramis still found room in his fevered brain to be concerned about his friend.

“I’m alright,” he said, kneeling next to his brother. Aramis gave him a look of utter disbelief. “Fine, not alright but I will be. Once we find shelter.”

Aramis gave a stuttered nod, but nothing more. Beyond spent and incapable of more.

“C’mon,” Porthos said pulling Aramis’ right arm over his shoulder in preparation to bear his friend’s weight. “You ready to get out of here?”

“More than… mon ami.”

Porthos gave a quick nod and brought them both to their feet, Aramis hissing at the pain the movement caused, all but sagging in Porthos’ arms. He carefully maneuvered the marksman over to his own horse this time and propped him against the animal gently. “We ride double this time.”

Aramis didn’t protest, either too tired or in too much pain to do so, though likely both. Keeping his movements slow and deliberate, Porthos hefted the marksman into the saddle before climbing up behind him. Once seated, he hugged his injured brother close to keep him steady and glanced around.

Hunched over the horses’ neck, Aramis turned and offered Porthos a sickly grin. “This way, I kn-know you’re ‘bout t’f-fall.”

Porthos arched an eyebrow at his friend then slowly shook his head. “You’re very funny,” he began, a sardonic smile twisting his features. “You know that?”

“It’s on-one of my many charms…” Aramis’ grin suddenly locked into a grimace. His body seized and he folded forward.

The larger Musketeer shook his head. “That settles it,” he lay a comforting hand on Aramis uninjured shoulder while kicking his horse to move. “Stop talking and keep your eyes open. We need to find a place to stop for both our sakes.”

TBC….

The end of this particular chapter annoyed the beans out of me. But at some point you just have to toss caution to the wind so... sorry if it's a bit rocky here.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 

Athos and d'Artagnan pushed their horses to greater speed, concern for their friends spurring them on. Whatever the genesis of the events to land them in such a predicament was unimportant for now. All that mattered was reaching their brothers as quickly as possible.

They rounded the next bend then pulled up to gaze at their presumed destination.

It was a modest little home with a courtyard separating it from a barn, where a large cocoa colored heavy horse stood in a paddock, idly munching on hay. While of impressive height and breadth, the animal was clearly more suited to the plow than a saddle, and Athos began to wonder if their ride had not been in vain.

Making sure their uniforms were concealed beneath their cloaks, they drew near when a man exited the barn. His eyes locked on them, he strode determinedly to the center of the yard, a less than welcoming look on his face, one matched by the pitchfork clutched tightly in his grasp. Behind him, two small boys spilled from the structure before scampering over to stand near the horse in the pen.

"Monsieur," Athos canted his head in deference as they pulled to a stop. "We were hoping to acquire fresh saddle mounts and were told you had some of the finest horses in the area. Tell me I was not misled."

The farmer glared at them, widening his stance. "You were told wrong," he said, his voice low and as threatening as he lowered the pitchfork, pointed ends aimed in their direction. "Now, be on your way. There's nothing for you here."

Athos took in all that surrounded him, reconciling it against Red's odd demeanor just hours ago. While he could see no suitable horse before him, it was clear that this man was defending something of value. So his mind rushed with thoughts, desperate to think of anything he might say to sway their angry host. They'd not come to fight or take by force, but if it came to that...

"He's telling the truth, Athos," d'Artagnan interrupted. Athos glanced sharply at the younger man. "Judging by the looks of that one," he nodded toward the large animal in the pen, "we were indeed misled."

Athos looked at the horse. One of the boys stood before it, unafraid, a small hand outstretched, giggling as the horse nuzzled his palm while the other child sat its back, stroking the animal's mane soothingly.

"He's beautiful," D'Artagnan continued. "I have seen no finer heavy horse than that animal there. If he is anything to go by, clearly monsieur," he nodded respectfully, "you possess the finest horse flesh in  _ all  _ of France."

The farmer stood up straighter and studied d'Artagnan curiously a moment. "You know horses, boy?"

"I do," he said, a grin tipping one side of his mouth. "My father was a farmer, though it was mostly crops. I know it takes good horse stock to keep the fields planted and a farm running. I learned to spot a good animal when I was very young."

"Antoine?" a soft voice called. As one they all turned to where a young woman stood in the door to the house, the ample swell of her abdomen apparent.

"Vivian," Antoine angled and shouted at her. "Back inside, woman!"

Vivian looked ready to argue but instead gazed hesitantly to Athos and then d'Artagnan. "Noon meal is ready," she said shyly before disappearing inside.

"My apologies, monsieur," Athos pressed, carefully. "We did not mean to intrude on you and your family, but we have urgent business and our mounts are on the verge of exhaustion…"

Antoine studied at their horses. "Aye, you shouldn't have pushed them so hard."

"It was not without reason," the swordsman continued. "We are on an errand of certain urgency and in need of reaching Chaîne des Puys before nightfall."

The farmer seemed to stiffen, his grip on the pitchfork going white. "And just what be your business there?"

Athos and d'Artagnan exchanged a quick glance, one the older Musketeer hoped conveyed caution. Given Antoine's sudden change of demeanor, it was not outside the realm of possibility that farm owner was somehow loyal to the Marquis.

"While I can assure you that we are honorable men, our business is our own," Athos put in as tactfully as he could. "Suffice it to say, it was worthy of pushing our horses to such a state."

"You'd do well to stay clear of that place," Antoine suggested, his poise somewhat rattled. "Nothin' in Chaîne des Puys worth your time… or your life."

Growing up amongst the nobility had taught Athos a great deal. Mostly that he wanted nothing to do with them, desired not to be like them and that most, like the resident Marquis, were not given to making friends amongst the common, honest people who worked their lands.

No, he thought studying the farmer, given this man's guarded disposition and shuddered warning, Athos sensed an unease that spoke of little affection or loyalty between him and the Marquis.

"Friends of ours were passing through," Athos continued, watching the farmer carefully. "Seems they have run afoul of some local landowner—"

"Marquis d'Évreux, I'd wager," the farmer growled, voice full of disdain. "He owns the land that Chaîne des Puys sits on and its tenants are a sorrier lot for his new found interest in them," he spat. "Him and his men make for an intolerable existence."

"D'Évreux," Athos said, rolling the name around in his head, trying to recall if he had heard it spoken in circles at court. "You sound as if you've met him."

The farmer huffed. "Once," he spat on the ground. "When he sent his attack dog to buy some horses of mine," he growled. "The bastard Geroux, he took three of my best horses."

"He stole from you?" d'Artagnan sat up straighter in his saddle.

"The Marquis sent his man to buy three of my horses." The farmer's smile was mirthless and ugly. "When I told that rat bastard the price, he laughed in my face. Told me I'd take what he offered and be grateful for it."

"And just what did he offer?"

"Five livre per horse, a pittance for what they were worth. They were three of the finest saddle mounts in all of France, I guarantee it." He kicked at the ground bitterly. "Might'as well've stole 'm."

"Did you take this up with the Marquis directly?"

"Of course," he offered sourly. "I went to see him a week later and made my complaint. He agreed with me, said m'horses would be returned. Then he ran'em to ground, that bastard did. Gave'm back to me sorely abused and drained t'bone. They—" the farmer swallowed audibly. "They was in bad shape. I couldn't save'm. Had to put'm down."

Athos saw how the memory pained the man and held his tongue. He shot a warning look at d'Artagnan to do the same, though the boy appeared shaken enough to make that unnecessary.

Antoine finally met their eyes again. "So you'll excuse me if I'm not inclined to give my horses to just anyone coming in here who wants one."

Athos nodded somberly but inside, felt his heart lift. The farmer had thus far omitted any statement that he had more horses to give, thus concluding there was indeed something of value. Perhaps in that barn…

"I certainly understand, monsieur," Athos offered as he leaned forward in his saddle. "Upon our return to Paris, we will take your grievances to the King and seek justice on your behalf."

"The King…" the man eyed them curiously. "And why should your actions on my behalf make any difference at all?"

Athos and d'Artagnan shared a knowing look and in unison tossed back the left shoulder of their cloaks. The farmer stared at their pauldrons and the fleur-de-lis insignia etched into leather while the swordsman held his breath, hoping once more that he'd not overplayed their hand.

The farmer's reaction couldn't have been more puzzling. They were close enough to Paris that such a revelation usually drew either awe or disdain. This time, however, there was none at all.

"You do know what this means, do you not?" Athos pushed, thinking perhaps he'd misjudged the range of knowledge the locals possessed of the King's soldiers.

The farmer nodded curtly. "You're Musketeers. Which means you work for the King, and also likely that you ain't got the money to cover the cost of mounts, am I right?"

"Monsieur," d'Artagnan put in, "you will receive payment, we just—"

"Save it!" the man snapped. Silence hung in the air between them and Athos was all but certain this had been a waste of time. "There's only the two of you. You think you can honestly go up against the Marquis and his lot?"

"If we were ordinary men," d'Artagnan answered quickly and just a tad too much certainty, "that would be a task. But as you said, we  _ are _ Musketeers."

Athos raised an eyebrow at his younger counterpart, neither as bold as the boy nor as certain. Where the lad was awash with the courage of his convictions, Athos was more pragmatic of their situation. The farmer did, in fact, have a point.

Antoine chuckled. "Oh you got your honor and I'm sure you're really good in a fight, but all the honor in the world won't match up to what the Marquis and his men are willing to do to piss on it." He spat. "Besides, it's just the two of you."

"And our two friends." d'Artagnan added with a bit of challenge to his voice.

"Four…" Antoine countered bluntly. "Against what? Thirty, almost forty men?" The farmer shrugged. "Just being realistic."

Athos stilled. "How certain are you of those numbers?"

"Certain enough." He looked at Athos intently. "Seen'm all loungin' about when I was at the Marquis' estate. That many new faces in someplace as small as Chaîne des Puys ain't something that goes unnoticed."

The farmer's comment confirmed Athos' suspicions; that group on the road clearly represented only a portion of the force searching for their friends. The man was right. If there was more than one search party out there, all of them equally manned and armed, all the courage in the world would do little good. And likely get them killed before they could even lay eyes on Aramis and Porthos.

No, it was time for a change of plans. So, ever the tactician, Athos mentally began revisiting the idea he'd dismissed after their first encounter with the Marquis' men. It hadn't seemed necessary then, but now…

He glanced at the younger man, watching him stare down the farmer and felt some measure of dread. The Gascon would most certainly not like the change in direction.

"Please, monsieur," Athos implored. "Tell us if you can help us. If not, we will be on our way. We wish only to aid our friends."

Athos took it as a good sign when Antoine did not immediately dismiss them. The swordsman looked at the boys and then at the house and realized suddenly all this man stood to lose if he helped them. If the Marquis and his men were as bad as he said and if Athos and d'Artagnan were not successful in their rescue, revenge would be swift. Antoine would likely be wiped from existence, his wife and children as well, or doomed to starve.

"Alright then," Antoine began, turning the pitchfork to stab the pointed ends into the ground to lean against the handle. "I'll give you horses but only on one condition."

Athos stiffened. "And that would be…?"

"When you come across that bastard Geroux—"

"Geroux…?" Athos looked questioningly at d'Artagnan who shook his head in puzzlement.

"Oh, the bastard's easy enough to spot," Antoine explained. "Has hair red as the devil."

"Yes," Athos face darkened. "I believe we are well acquainted— well," he amended, "acquainted enough, that is. We had the misfortune of running into him and a number of his men on the road."

Antoine squinted inquisitively at Athos. "And he sent you to me for horses?"

Athos nodded. "He did," one side of his face tipping in a droll smile, "though not for the reason he suspected at the time."

"Ah, you lied to him!" Antoine suddenly threw his head back and laughed.

"Well," Athos grinned. "He did not seem the kind of man who could, or should be trusted with the truth."

"Indeed." The farmer wiped his eyes and studied the two men before him. "Could be you two just might give Marquis d'Évreux some trouble after all."

D'Artagnan smirked. "We aim to try."

Antoine chuckled. "God, I wish I'd seen that. Imagine the pisser mood Geroux'll be in when he realizes his folly." He walked over and plucked two halters off a peg next to the barn door and returned. "You watch out though." He offered Athos a look of warning. "Geroux is the most dangerous one of the lot. Which brings me back to that favor…"

Athos eyed the ropes curiously. "And that is?"

"You put a musket ball in that rotter, Geroux, and any of his rabid dogs that run with 'im. Although I don't suspect he'll give you much reason not to. It'll be you or him. So make sure it's him."

Athos studied the farmer for a moment. The more he learned of the Marquis and his henchmen, the more urgently the voice inside urged him toward a change in tactics. He glanced carefully at the Gascon and felt some measure of dread. The lad would most certainly not like the change in tactics kindly.

"So you can help us?"

The farmer smirked. "Yea. You're just lucky I hate the Marquis d'Évreux and his ilk more than I do the King and his blasted taxes."

"Indeed we are," Athos inclined his head in a grateful bow, wisely choosing to ignore the treasonous words he'd spoken against the crown. 

"Edmond!" the farmer snapped. The taller of the two boys immediately moved away from the plow horse and came to stand next to his father. "Get two lead ropes from the barn," he said handing the boy the halters, "then get Bruno and Gaston."

The boy nodded, took the halters and rushed into the barn. He returned seconds later holding two ropes in his other hand and rushed off to the east, disappearing quickly into a copse of trees. The other boy came over to stand next to his father and tugged at his shirt. "What about me Papa?"

The farmer looked to think a moment before he knelt down. "You, Tristan have the most important job of all." The news made the boy straighten. "Go with your brother and make sure he doesn't feed Bruno more than one apple, or he'll get fat," he said ruffling the boy's hair. With a broad smile, the boy turned and ran after his big brother.

"We need to get to our friends as quickly as possible," Athos explained as he and d'Artagnan dismounted. "One of them, from what we've heard, is injured and well…"

Antoine nodded. "I understand. But we can at least pack you some food and a fresh skin of wine. It'll take that long at least to get you saddled and on to your new mounts."

"We are in your debt, sir," Athos nodded and looked over to where d'Artagnan was tying his horse's rein to a post.

"A debt I'll likely never see repaid," Antoine added.

D'Artagnan seemed to take exception to the comment. "You have reason to doubt our success?"

"Boy, I'm as devout as the next man but I'm with St. Thomas on this one," he offered not unkindly. "I'll believe it when I see it."

Off in the distance, the farmer's eldest son appeared from the tree line where he'd moments before vanished. He led two magnificent horses, one a dapple gray coat and a blaze face, the other a chestnut with white socks, both coats gleaming in the full light of day. The horses danced happily on their leads, and yet remained obedient to their young handler.

The sight prompted a low whistle from d'Artagnan. "They are magnificent animals."

Antoine looked at the younger man. "I wager you've never seen their equal, young man," he said, his voice rich with obvious pride. "Got them and three others off a Moorish trader in Paris a year ago." The large gray came and nuzzled his mouth into the farmer's outstretched hand. "Poor fellow needed to travel home and didn't have the money. It was the other three that Geroux all but killed…."

D'Artagnan studied the horses. Their limbs were long and graceful and they seemed to dance in place, eager to be off, yet docile enough to be controlled by two small children. "They're small," he studied the animals with a practiced eye, "almost delicate." Then looked at Antoine. "And fast, I wager."

Antoine grinned. "That, young man, is a wager you'd win then. When you ask it of them, they run like a gale force wind in a storm." d'Artagnan smiled brightly. "For speed, they are far superior to your heavier horses."

"I gather Geroux and the Marquis' do not know of their existence?" Athos inquired.

Antoine shook his head. "I've managed to keep these hidden since that day. Else he'd've taken them too."

"Good," Athos grinned. "At least we have one thing in our favor." He patted the horse on the neck and made to remove the saddle from his own mount before stopping to gaze seriously at Antoine. "If the other horses were like these, once we are seen, they will know it was you who gave them to us. That could go badly for you."

"I am aware," Antoine nodded, watching his sons saddle the chestnut. "Consider it as an incentive to make good on my condition. Kill Geroux and you'll be saving my life, and that of my wife and kids as well."

D'Artagnan had just led the grey over to the pen to tie his lead, when the horse began bumping him playfully on his shoulder. "Friendly," he chuckled.

Antoine nodded and patted the horse's' neck. "My oldest was able to ride them the day after I broke them to the saddle. Even my youngest can seat them without hesitation. There's not a mean bone in their bodies."

The horses were saddled and bridled in less than a half hour, the farmer carrying much of his own tack, was insistent that they use it instead of their bulky Musketeer standard issue equipment. The less encumbered gear was on quickly and both men mounted in no time.

Athos was instantly impressed at how obediently and still the animals stood. He'd expected the spirited horses to shift anxiously but they stayed calm; obviously well trained, or the farmer had overstated the depths of their abilities.

"Have a care," the farmer stepped up to Athos, but looked at each of them in turn. "They are sensitive beasts. It won't take much to stir them to action. They respond to the lightest pressure from your knees. More than that, and you'll likely land on your arse in the dust."

They nodded in unison, d'Artagnan visibly eager to test Antoine's words. Athos nodded at the farmer. "We  _ will _ repay you, monsieur."

Antoine stepped back and studied them, doubt clearly etched in his features. "Just stay alive and bring back my horses. If not," he looked between them. "I'd consider it a paid in full if the Marquis' and his men were locked in the châtelet forever. Or dead," he shrugged. "I'm not picky."

Athos nodded once more and together, he and d'Artagnan turned their horses and headed toward the main road.

 

 

Porthos allowed the horses to pick their way slowly along, his eyes scanning for much needed shelter while at the same time, alert to impending danger.

Before him, Aramis' sat barely conscious, head bowed, chin to chest, swaying in tempo with the animal's pace. only Porthos' arm kept him upright where he rested now from the barrage of pain that wracked him almost constantly,

Earlier, Porthos had taken great care to switch horses on occasion, allowing one a chance to rest while the other took their combined weight. But each time the process had proved more painful than the last for Aramis, and if the additional pain from all the jostling and fever weren't bad enough, the newly acquired spasms only added to his friend's misery, exacting a greater toll on his already failing health.

Stubborn as usual, Aramis had failed to mention that new development. Instead he remained foolishly stoic, even knowing Porthos could feel each and every single muscle contracting and trembling beneath the arm he had wrapped around the injured man's waist as they traveled.

The horses, Porthos knew, would not sustain this stress much longer. They too, needed rest, a more elongated time to recover. Which always brought him to the source of his greatest frustration; the need to find sufficient shelter.

Problem was the terrain. Save for the game trail they'd been traveling, on every side of them the vegetation was dense and the cursory search from horseback had proved fruitless. In one of his more lucid moments, Aramis had tried to convince Porthos to scout ahead on his own, but Porthos could not be conceived of leaving him behind and would have none of it.

So for now, they would keep this pace; the horses plodding lazily along, Aramis hanging listlessly before him, and Porthos occasionally wiping his fevered brow with a hand cooled by their depleted water supply. Even when Aramis, in his more lucid moments railed against wasting water while shuddering at the relief it brought.

Aramis let out a long, miserable moan and Porthos pulled the horses to a stop. "'Mis…?" he called, shifting his hand beneath the marksman's shirt to touch his flesh. He'd long ago learned the tell-tale signs of oncoming spasms, the feel of muscles drawing tight before the incessant trembles began.

Then another bout of spasms splintered Aramis' inside as he began to jerk and twitch. "Shit…" Porthos murmured, reaching to grab their last water skin. He removed the stopper with his teeth and poured the cool liquid over the back of Aramis' neck, careful to control the flow.

At its most unbearable apex Aramis heaved a long, terrible, miserable sound before attempting to fold further in on himself against the onslaught of agony.

"It'll pass," Porthos soothed, reaching around to stroke the sweat soaked hair from Aramis' heated forehead, trying to offer what comfort he could. "Easy now…"

The painful spasms had begun not long after they began riding double and each seemed worse than the one before. An agony of infection that Porthos was all too familiar with, gripping Aramis tightly, leaving him doubled over and shivering against some invisible fiend trying to shred him from the inside.

Porthos could hear Aramis' teeth grinding as hot spasms of agony wracked his body, washing over him, burning like fire beneath his flesh. No stranger to the first signs of poisoned blood, Porthos offered comfort in the only way he could. Touch.

"I've got you...," the dark skinned Musketeer grumbled in his ear, his hold firm but gentle. "Steady on…"

When the worst of it passed, Aramis gave a frustrated shudder and collapsed forward, his breathing ragged and strained. In lieu of speaking, he reached a hand out and patted his friend on the leg, their sign that he was ready to move.

"It's just another battle," Porthos said as he returned the stopper to the waterskin and the container to his pack. He reached out and gently pulled Aramis upright, letting him rest back against Porthos' chest, his head lolling to rest on the larger man's shoulder. "Done it dozens of times. Just keep fighting."

Aramis' eyes opened to mere slivers, his nod of agreement barely perceptible. His eyes slid shut and Porthos exhaled, slowly letting the tension drain from his own shoulders, more determined now than ever to find refuge from this interminable journey.

Time marched slowly by, birds overhead cackling and dancing in the breezes. The relief of it nearly dizzying as it lifted sweat soaked hair offering a cooling reprieve, though Porthos knew it would take more than a restless north wind to cool Aramis' heated skin.

Lost in his thoughts, concerns and worries, Porthos paid little mind to all else. The wind gusted, carrying with it a peculiar smell, a mixture of bitter and sweet that overrode the stale odor of sweat and horse that had trailed them since their journey began as far back as Orleans. God that seemed like ages ago...

Porthos paid it no mind until he felt Aramis shift upright, facing away from him and staring off into the distance, his body still. The larger Musketeer immediately stiffened, awaiting the inevitable tremor to grip him once more. But it didn't come.

"What's wrong?" Porthos strained, looking in the direction where Aramis' gaze seemed to be focused.

"Those… flowers." The sharpshooter slurred lifting a shaky hand to point. "Need t'pick those…"

Porthos' gaze followed to where his friend indicated. A lush, dark green foliage climbed the slope in a thick blanket, their stems dotted by small yellow flowers, their vibrant color making them visible beneath the shade of trees. They had leaves as wide as a man's hand and they swayed lightly in the breeze. Porthos realized now where that bitter and sweet scent had come from.

Porthos glanced from Aramis to the blossom dotted slope. "We're on the run for our lives and you want me to stop. To pick… flowers." he offered in disbelief. He expected this, though not this soon. "Fever talk," he supplied with a grim shake of his head before kicking their horses back into motion. "Shelter first, then we'll talk about flowers."

Aramis batted at his friend's arm wrapped around his waist. "Clean... wounds…" he murmured. "R'move n'fection… m-mantel," his voice grew stronger.

"I know and we'll do all that." It was almost disconcerting how insistent the sharpshooter had suddenly become, the intensity of it doing nothing to calm his own worries. "Look, there's a dense group of trees up ahead," he nodded but realizing Aramis seemed more unsettled by the moment, "might offer enough cover for a short stop, at least."

"P'rthos stop." Aramis suddenly kicked his right foot up and shifted his weight hard away from Porthos' hold. Clearly trying to dismount but lacking the strength, his clumsy effort got his leg high enough to kick the horse in the head before tangling in the reins. The startled animal reared anxiously.

"Wha—Aramis!" Porthos' surprised bark frightened the horses further and the animal shied violently before beginning to buck in a manic circle. Fighting the animal's response, the gentle hold became a frightened grab to keep them both in the saddle.

Porthos grabbed the pommel and pulled Aramis in tight, the need to be gentle in direct contradiction to the need to keep them both from spilling to the ground. Aramis' cry of pain did not go unnoticed as his grip pinched and fisted against torn flesh, but neither could it be helped as their world atop a frightened horse soon became a spinning, whirling dervish.

When it was over and the animal stilled, Aramis sucked in a pained gasp and rolled forward until his cheek lay against the horse's' mane, panting in agony. Porthos made certain he would not fall from the horse but sat back, one hand on the sharpshooter's shoulder, panting.

"Dammit," Porthos growled, sliding quickly from the saddle, keeping one hand on his injured friend to stay him. "What the hell're you trying to do?"

When Aramis could draw breath again, he opened bleary eyes at his friend. "S- stop..."

Porthos' nodded, "Yeah, alright," he relented, concern and curiosity softening his tone. "Ya' know there's easier ways of tellin' me you need a rest." The larger Musketeer looked around before tugging gently on his friend. "C'mon, let’s get you settled over here, in the shade, yeah?"

When the sharpshooter's feet hit the ground, the big Musketeer looped one of Aramis' arms over his shoulder and half dragged, half carried him over to a shade bearing tree on the slope. Next to a rather heft gathering of the very flowers Aramis had been so keen on, much to his consternation.

"You rest here." Porthos lowered his friend gently to the ground and began covering him with his own cloak in effort to make him as comfortable as he could. The larger Musketeer glanced quickly at the source of their recent mishap- the flowers Aramis had mentioned just to their left. "I'll get our water skins and move the horses out of sight."

Porthos worked efficiently, trying to ignore Aramis' ragged breathing and his eyes closed tightly against the pain. Focusing instead on getting him settled, gauging how long they could remain, scanning the small area for defensible positions when he froze.

"You're bleeding again." Porthos straightened, staring down at one of his own hands.

"Porthos…" Aramis started but his voice came at a whisper.

"Be right back," the big Musketeer murmured and stalked back to their horses. He dug through their saddlebags for more cloth to pack the wound and what remained of their depleted water skin and returned quickly to kneel at Aramis’ side. 

"Let's just repack this...," he said, setting out the water skin and bandages he'd retrieved. When he made to undo the fasteners of his doublet, Aramis grabbed his hand, stopping him.

"Bleeding," Aramis panted, "is the least of my troubles, mon ami."

Porthos gazed sharply at his friend. "What are you talking about?" Then he slowly loosened the wrapping under which the waded bandage lay pressed against the wound. When he pulled back one blood covered corner of the used cloth, his breath caught in his throat.

Aramis nodded. "It's infected."

Even the small amount of the wound that he'd managed to expose told the truth of it. The stench alone was a testament to the fetid, rotting flesh beneath the bandage he could not see. The smell hit him hardest and it was all he could do to keep from gagging. The bandage was soaked through, evidence of further bleeding but what scared the Musketeer most was the tell-tale striated lines under the skin surrounding wound. They spidered out beyond the bandage, snaking up and poisoning his blood.

"But I…" Porthos shook his head sitting back on his heels. "I got the balls out, cleaned the wound. It shouldn't have festered."

"Water's not the best deterrent from infection," Aramis said breathlessly. "Pow'dr residue, oils, bits of clothing it carried into the wound, any can be… problematic."

The big man sat back on his heels. "And how long have you known it was infected?" he asked, the sound of accusation in his voice unmistakable. Not waiting for an answer, he leaned in and began plucking at the remaining cloth packing the wound. The fabric stuck to the dried blood and seeping pus, making it impossible to avoid discomfort.

The marksman tensed and jerked with each tug. "When we—" he gasped. "We descended the—the valley."

Porthos swore vehemently but continued working. "Why didn't you say something sooner?" he snapped, pulling one side of the cloth from the wound completely this time.

"Wouldn't have ma—" Aramis gasped, "mattered. Oh God stop!" he grabbed Porthos' hand and squeezed it with strength born of a man who'd suffered too much pain. "Please stop."

The tension fled Porthos as quickly as it had arrived. "I'm sorry 'Mis," his eyes a combination of apology and concern. "I've got to get to that wound, see how bad—"

"It's bad, P'rths," he interrupted through gritted teeth. "Looking at it w-won't change that. And until we can do… more than g-gaze upon it and cover it w—" Aramis gasped and bent over slightly, "with another useless wad of cloth, I p-prefer not to go through that more than once."

Porthos nodded. "Alright. Alright, it'll wait," he soothed, patting Aramis gently on his back as he folded further into himself and breathed harshly through another sharp lancing of pain. When his breathing evened out, the big man lowered his friend back to rest on the ground.

Sitting back on his heels once more, he looked utterly defeated. "So what, we just keep riding while you slowly die of blood poisoning?"

Aramis laid a shaky hand on his friend's arm. "Pr-preferably not." He swallowed hard against the fever. "Pack more cloth over the wound for now, then..." he looked over to his left. "Go pick as many of those plants as you can."

The larger Musketeer pressed fresh cloth against the wound and blinked curiously at his friend. "Are we back to those damn flowers again?"

Aramis grinned then winced at the jostling of his injury, panting against the rising tide of pain. "Trust me. If we can get somewhere safe for a while, and come across some more water," he nudged the nearly empty water skin, "those plants m-might save my life."

Porthos stilled. "How so?" he asked as he pulled the longer cloth that he'd wound about him to hold the first bandages on, up and over the added wadding.

Sighing in relief that his friend had finished rebinding the wound, Aramis exhaled. "English call it Lady's Mantle, in French we call it Pied-de-lion. When boiled it creates a tincture…" he grimaced a moment before continuing, "that can be used to flush the wound. Kills infection, or so I've heard."

Porthos sat back on his heels. "And you know how to prepare this tincture?"

"Well, yes," Aramis squinted a moment, trying to think. "And no."

"This is no time for riddles, dammit."

"Apologies," Aramis swallowed. "I merely wish to convey that they are usually steeped in a dried state, not fresh. I'm not completely certain that the fresh plant will have enough effect, but..." he sighed seemingly out of strength.

"But it's better than nothing," Porthos finished. 

“My sentiments exactly,” Aramis sighed, eyes blinking several times before slowly drifting closed.

“Hang on,” Porthos said sternly grabbing the water skin and removing the stopper. “Drink first.”

Aramis opened his eyes obediently and Porthos, not waiting for him to attempt to lift his head, slipped a hand beneath him for support and guided the water container to his lips. After a few cautious sips, Aramis turned his head away to indicate his thirst was slaked. Porthos then lowered him gently and allowed him to relax. 

The marksman had other ideas. “You next…” he whispered, watching the dark skinned man carefully. 

It did no good to argue with his friend, Porthos knew this from experience. So he lifted the too-empty skin to his lips and took a small sip before righting the container. Seemingly satisfied with his action, Aramis gave the barest nod and sighed.

Porthos twisted to look at the medicinal plants readily available and ground his teeth. It was one thing to have the remedy and quite another to have time and space to use it. They'd yet to find any suitable shelter in which to hide and rest and they were in desperate need of both. While it was at least a start, Porthos struggled against a pervasive sense of hopelessness as his energy continued to drain.

Porthos gazed up the trail. "There's forest just up ahead," he nodded, replacing the stopper on the skin. "Might be the best we can do for shelter."

Aramis nodded weakly and sank back, closed his eyes and let himself rest.

Porthos stood and moved back to their horses to quickly stow the supplies and lead both mounts to the shade tree opposite his injured friend. "Alright," he said gazing at the flowers, hands on his hips. "How much of the plant do I get?"

"The en-entire plant," the marksman responded, his eyes still closed. "Root, stems an' flowers."

Porthos nodded. He walked over the foliage, reached down and unearthed two good sized specimens and held them up to Aramis. "How many of 'em do I need to pick?

"Um…" Aramis brow furrowed before he opened his eyes, clearly trying to get his sluggish brain to work. "Dry, they are stronger… fresh I," he shook his head, "… I'm not sure."

"Then I pick every damn one," Porthos offered decisively and stalked over to the marksman's horse to pull one of their empty cloth food sack from Aramis' saddle bags. He returned to the growth and began pulling as much of the plant as he could, careful to pull roots, stems, leaves before shoving it in the sack.

The dark skinned Musketeer stuffed another plant in the bag and shifted over to the next. There were hundreds of them on the side of the slope. He never had to move more than a few inches to grab another. "How'll we know if we got enough?" he asked shoving it into the sack.

"When I'm not dead come tomorrow, I suppose."

Porthos stopped, rounding on his friend.

The marksman was laying back once more, Porthos' cape covering him. His eyes were closed but Porthos could see how his chest rose and fell in great waves, could hear the force it took to breath. Too harsh and far too labored. A fine sheen of sweat beaded his forehead and his skin was flushed and sickly pale. Dread and fear as he'd never known before swamped him like a crushing blow.

Porthos growled and looked down at the plants. "No one's dying here," he murmured.

Then, like a raging beast, he attacked the plants, picking—ripping them from the ground, one, sometimes two at a time, regardless of their size. Through the thick growth, he moved swiftly and determinedly, vowing internally that he'd pick every last damn plant if need be.

Like a lumbering giant caught in a whirlwind, he stomped through the foliage, adding to the sackcloth, not at all aware of the heat of the day, of the sweat dripping off his own forehead. Shoving from his mind the exhaustion he felt at having been in the saddle for these last 24 hours, no sleep, no rest, no food, little water.

It didn't matter. None of that did. Aramis was suffering, his life hanging on the edge of a sharp sword; if this plant was what he needed to tip things right, then Porthos would pick the hill clean, if need be.

One by one he pulled at them, stuffing each into the cloth, the juices from them coating his hands, making them slippery, but never stopping. When it appeared the first sack could hold more, he took out his anxiety by punching them down to the bottom of the bag to make room for more.

When that first bag would give no more, he tied it off with shaky hands. Left it and began filling the next, up and over, growling at the plants that didn't want to give from the soil. One in particular seemed to have such a hold on a root and would not give way. So angry and frustrated, he pulled his pistol to shoot the damn thing when he fumbled the weapon and in attempt to catch it, ended up batting it away.

Cursing himself for a fool, he stomped toward the weapon and froze.

A large shadow, looming behind several overgrown shrubs and trees, lay just beyond him.

Porthos blinked several times and wiped the sweat from his eyes and brow. He moved forward carefully, needing a closer look to be sure wasn't a mirage, a product of his exhausted mind, there only because he wanted it so desperately.

But there it was and he found himself dizzy with relief.

"A cave…"

 

The pace was exhilarating. The world around Athos passed in a rapidly moving blur, the animal's gait so smooth it nearly felt like he was flying. It was a rush having such an energetic mount beneath him and he suspected that if d'Artagnan's smile was anything to go by, he felt it too.

But while sharing the younger man's exuberance, Athos was making new plans. Treville had always considered him a brilliant tactician, a born leader and planner and while he chafed at the praise, he supposed it was true because he'd made a decision that would, in all likelihood, prove highly upsetting to the younger Musketeer. But one that could make the difference between having a chance and forfeiting all of their lives.

The main road came into view and he knew he could delay no longer; this was where the next part of his plan would have to come to fruition if they were to have any chance at all of saving their friends. Raising his hand, he pulled on the reins and called a halt to their journey.

"What is it?" d'Artagnan asked eagerly.

"I want you to head back to Paris." Athos fiddled with the reins then looked determinedly at the lad. "Get back to the Garrison and bring help."

"You're joking," D'Artagnan began before his mouth snapped shut, seemingly biting down on a stronger retort. "And what will you be doing in the meantime?" he asked and Athos could hear the barely contained frustration in his voice.

"I will continue onto Chaîne des Puys, see if I can find out what happened to Porthos and Aramis. Perhaps find out which way they headed."

d'Artagnan gaped, his gaze incredulous as he stared at the older man. "Alone? How on earth is that a good plan?"

"Over thirty men, d'Artagnan. Even if we are incredibly fortunate, that is a lot of men even for the four of us."

"Yes and now there will be just three of you. That's worse not better."

"Not if you get back to the Garrison on a fast horse, get Treville and a regiment of Musketeers equal to, if not close to their numbers. Then perhaps we'll stand a chance."

D'Artagnan gestured wildly. "This is lunacy!"

Athos glared at the boy. "This is making the best of an impossible situation." When the boy huffed and looked away, he reached out and grabbed his arm until he returned his gaze. He then pinned the boy with a determined stare that allowed no argument. "This is likely the only hope Aramis and Porthos have."

D'Artagnan held his gaze a moment longer before he relented. He gave a quick nod and swallowed. "I don't like this," he said adjusting his horse's reins in his hands again. "But I trust you."

Athos exhaled, thinking on the enormity of the situation at hand. Facing forty armed men was nothing compared to the fear of having this young man's trust be misplaced. It wasn't just d'Artagnan; Porthos, Aramis… all the men had placed their trust in him. Why he could not fathom, but they had and he was determined not to let them down.

Still, he could think of no better option. They needed help and if the people in this area were so accustomed to letting the Marquis bully them for the last dozen or so years, they could not be counted on to do differently now. Perhaps some may have reached a point beyond bearing but he couldn't count on that. And besides, they weren't soldiers.

No. His gut told him this was the right course of action.

Athos laid a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, met the younger man's eyes and nodded. "Ride fast and good luck."

D'Artagnan nodded and moved his horse around Athos' to head him south. "You do the same. Oh, and tell Porthos and Aramis, the first round is on them when we get back to Paris."

Athos smiled and with that, d'Artagnan nudged his horse and the animal took off.

 

TBC…


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Captain Treville picked up his quill once more and began scratching at the document he'd been working on. The King had wanted a report on his men, those healthy and capable of fulfilling their duties, those recovering though unable to resume active duty and those still suffering effects of this blasted sickness. But his mind and heart were not in it.

Outside his window, a cacophony of shouts and the sound of horses in the garrison courtyard, left him tense for news. Some word, that the returning men below were Athos and d'Artagnan, followed in by Aramis and Porthos. That they were fine and fit. That this whole need for concern had been unnecessary. That the entire reason for their tardiness was nothing more complicated than the duke having delayed their departure, or one of their horses had thrown a shoe.

So Treville gripped the writing tool and willed himself to stay focused. To finish the damn report. He would not check. Not again. Not—

"Dammit," he slammed the pen down and jumped up from his chair, striding purposefully to the door and wrenched it open. He reached the rail of his balcony in one extra stride. And felt his heart drop.

Felix and some others, recently returned to duty, having completed their first full watch at the palace, were back. It was a cause for commotion below. And Treville could not blame them for their lightened mood and in fact shared it. To a point.

The point being that he still had men unaccounted for. Four of his best men. And not sick or convalescing in their rooms, but missing and he'd not the slightest idea why or in what condition they were and cursed himself for a fool for not sending men out earlier to find them.

But that was it, wasn't it? Could he really convince the King to allow it? They were soldiers, after all. Replaceable. Every last one of them. Men would line up to take their place and be happy for the job and commission. It's not like there was a short supply in Paris.

But no one could hold a candle to these men. Aramis had been with him the longest, was the best shot in the regiment and crazy to boot when it came to a fight. And Porthos… strong as an ox, loyal to a fault, intelligent and keen Porthos. No, they weren't just any other soldiers.

Would the King see it that way? Perhaps. Or perhaps not. But there was one person he felt sure who would. And that person had the King's ear in all matters.

"Maurice!" he snapped.

The Musketeer responded instantly and turned to look up at his commanding officer. "Yes sir?"

"Have my horse saddled and ready for me in five. I've an appointment with the Queen."

"A cave…" Porthos whispered and a grin spilt his face, ear to ear. But he quickly tamped down his elation.

Shelter was all well and good but shelter occupied by wolves or bears, well, he'd have his work cut out for him because he felt quite certain he'd fight either for a chance at refuge for his ailing friend.

Lurching to his feet he thundered to the entrance and stopped to gaze into the darkness. He could assess little about its depths and so pulled his sword to begin carefully hacking at the overgrown vegetation that barred his way. He cleaved selectively at the various vines and overgrowth to allow them entry, careful to keep as much as he could intact to further conceal their possible hide-away. They could ill afford to lose such an advantage if the cave proved sufficient.

Even with the scant bit of growth cleared, drafts of cool air flowed easily from the shadowed cavern. The sensation offered relief to his overheated skin and after inhaling deeply, he detected no scent of rot or feces. It was not a bear cave, he realized with greater relief.

Spinning on one heel, the large Musketeer retraced his steps and barreled down the slope. "Aramis!" he yelled before remembering their pursuers and lowering his voice. "Aramis," he called quietly before dropping down next to the marksman.

Either passed out or sleeping, Aramis lay quietly, eyes closed. It was unnatural to see him so devoid of life; Porthos lay a hand on his chest and after a moment breathed a sigh of relief. Still breathing, though it wasn't with his normal ease.

His chest rose and fell in an unnatural stutter and every so often, a tremor quaked his body, his head jerking to one side. Porthos ripped off one glove and felt the side of his face. The heat had increased. "Dammit," he murmured as fear burned like acid in his throat. Tugging his cape up and over his friend, trying to make him more comfortable, he jumped up and ran back to his horse.

"I found us a cave, Aramis," he went on because he could not tolerate the silence, nor the thought Aramis might be that far gone. Somewhere in there, the marksman heard him. "I just need to check it out, make sure there's no bears or wolves usin' it as a home." He found the jar of tallow and a dirty strip of cloth that he could never use as a bandage. "If not, and if it's big enough, it'll do for what we need."

Jar and flint in hand, Porthos turned and cast his eyes about in search of his next item. Scouring the ground, he found a suitable branch, walked over to it and knelt. He opened the jar and dipped the cloth to coat it, then wrapped it around the thickest end of the tree limb.

"Cave's far enough off the path too," Porthos continued as he began tapping flint and the steel of his parrying dagger. Through much practice, a sizeable spark jumped from the impact and the tallow caught. Flames soon lapped greedily at the fuel and he lifted the torch and headed back to the slope. "Has good cover to keep it hid so," he looked over at his too-still friend, "we could likely stay put there for a while."

Aramis didn't answer. The large Musketeer swallowed hard and felt his eyes water.

"Damn your hide, don't you dare die on me…" he muttered anger and frustration combining with fear and helplessness. "Hold on, right? I need you to tell me what to do with this plant. So you bloody hold on!"

Mind whirling at the many tasks before him, his hands froze and he looked at where the marksman lay. Aramis was back far enough off the trail and in deep shade at the base of the tree near the hill. He'd be well enough out of sight for a bit longer.

The horses, however, were another thing altogether; leaving them out in the open, as big as they were, would tempt fate too much for him to risk it, even for a brief time. And he was under no delusion that getting Aramis up and in the cave would be a short trip. No. He wanted time to settle his friend properly once he got him to the cave, and leaving the horses out was too risky for that.

Turning in a wide circle, he scanned their surroundings and stopped short at the sight of a copse of trees, thick with leaves, sitting some thirteen paces from their current position. Deciding quickly, he gathered their reins and lead the horses to the stand of timber and tied them off before abandoning them.

As an afterthought, he grabbed their bedrolls, spared a quick glance at his friend and launched up the hill once more, stopping only when he reached the cave entrance. Torch out in front of him, he pushed through the remaining growth and stepped inside before coming to a stop.

The light from the flame filled the cavern quickly and in little time he knew this was exactly what they needed. The cave was fairly high, allowing him to stand at full height and with his arms stretched above him. The roof of the cave was littered with pieces of dangling rock that hung threateningly, their ends sharp as dog's teeth, while the walls either side were damp, they were wide apart. Moving into the dwelling, he noted how the light from his torch barely illuminated the farthest wall; plenty of room for both horse and man.

Porthos wasted no time in celebration and got to work. After digging the torch end into the ground to free his hands and keep the area well lighted, he began gathering up some of the overgrowth he'd cut earlier. He next arranged the cuttings inside the cavern and off to one side, before spreading out both of their bedrolls on top of the soft foliage. Satisfied with his makeshift bed, he stalked out and once more bounded down the slope.

Half way down, he stuttered to a stop. "Aramis!" he called, shuffled down the rest of the way.

Aramis was on hands and knees, body swaying, his head low but appeared somewhat conscious. Coherent remained to be seen.

"Aramis, hey!" he called, sliding to a stop next to him. "What are you doing, eh 'Mis?" he asked laying a careful hand on his friend's back.

Aramis looked up at him, breathing harsh, tight lines of pain around his eyes and mouth. "D-didn't know where you'd g-gone. Thought you we-were hurt. Needed me."

Porthos huffed. "No 'Mis. I was up the way, checking out the cave I found."

"C-cave?" the marksman asked squinting at him.

"Yeah, c'mon," he said hooking one of Aramis' arms across his shoulder. "Just came back to get you and the horses. Lets go." He got them both upright, and understanding the change of position would be difficult on his friend, did not move at first. Aramis' gasp told him he'd been right not to. "You alright there?"

Aramis seemed unable or unwilling to answer. His lips were thinned out in a tight line, and his eyes slammed shut. After a moment he exhaled. "Oh-God that hurt," he finally gasped.

"I know 'Mis, but we gotta get up that slope. You want me to take you up or put you on your horse, let him get you up there?

Blinking slowly to take in his options, Aramis looked to their horses, seemingly trying to decide which of the two horrible choices would be less likely to cause him the most pain. And more importantly, which one he might be able to accommodate.

Aramis swallowed audibly. "I don't… think I c-could make it up on to the horse, le-let alone remain aloft up the hill."

Porthos nodded. "'Right then. I take you up, even if I have to carry you."

"Oh… that will be harder on you and…," he squinted up the slope, "and not to mention most unflattering for me."

Grinning, Porthos nodded. "Well, I promise not to tell d'Artagnan and Athos that I had to heft you about like a fainting damsel."

Aramis' head teetered back to scowl at the bigger man and his eyes narrowed. "No need…" he locked wobbly legs and pointed a shaking finger at the incline and nodded. "Onward then."

Porthos nodded and was about to move when he thought of something else. "You must promise me something first," he added and Aramis brow rose inquisitively. "I got no idea what to do with those plants once we get up there, so no passing out on me."

The marksman's hand pressed tighter to his wounded side. "I sh-shall endeavor to comply. Now do go on, before you bore me to sl-sleep."

Chuckling at his friend's cheek, Porthos repositioned the marksman's arm over his shoulder one last time. "Then let's go."

Together, they took the hill, a venture that tested every last vestige of strength that Aramis' weakened body possessed.

Athos reached the village outskirts well before evening repast. Uncertain as to the reception awaiting him, he reined in his mount just beyond the entrance, surveying the small town from atop his mount.

Even from this distance the appalling state of his destination was apparent, and yet bewildering. Given what he recalled of the d'Evreux family name, their wealth was vast and had not suffered any recent hardship of late. Its disrepair, the Marquis' mingling with commoners in a blatant abuse of power, it all only added to the mystery. Something was indeed amiss.

Before proceeding, Athos made certain his cape fully concealed his pauldron. Anonymity at this point was prudent until he knew more about who he was dealing with. Tamping down his growing concern and desire for immediacy, he gave a slight heel touch to the animal's sides and the horse eagerly complied.

Trotting lightly into the village center, he drew to a stop and gazed around him. Given the time of day, finding not a single soul about was curious and, to his best estimation, problematic. But of greatest concern at the moment, was the feeling of being watched...

Keeping his movements relaxed and unhurried, he dismounted then turned to toss one stirrup up over the saddle. Then, under the guise of adjusting the cinch, he cast a discerning eye about the village, dismissing one building after another save for the inn; if indeed Aramis and Porthos had stopped here, that would be the one place they'd have gone to immediately.

The building just to his right also drew his interest. A stable, it sat lonely and unattended, seemingly empty save for the lanky donkey grazing on what he realized was fresh hay piled on the ground in the center. So… not deserted, he quickly amended, shifting his free hand beneath his cape to his pistol.

Lowering the stirrup, he grabbed up his horse's reins and no sooner did he begin walking toward the inn when the familiar sound of a pistol being cocked gave him pause.

"Inn's closed, monsieur." The words were edged with anger and determination— and youth.

Athos turned slowly, hands enshrouded beneath his cape offering but a silhouette of his appeasement; the concealed pistol in his hand spoke otherwise.

The wielder of the weapon could have been no more than twelve and stood glaring at him. In his hand there was a pistol that had seen better days, aimed directly at the Musketeer. The lad's eyes were red rimmed, his face sporting more than a few fresh bruises along one side of his jaw, dried blood on his cheek and a split lip. Like the decrepit weapon in his hand, the boy too had seen better days.

"Best you get on your horse and leave here."

The sound of creaking wood behind him told Athos there was indeed more than this child to contend with.

Athos softened his gaze. "You do not appear so flush with coin that you would turn away a man willing to pay for rest for his horse, and," He glanced to his side speaking to the one behind him, "information."

Wood gave way to light footsteps and the silence to a woman's voice. "Where did you get that horse?"

Athos glanced over his shoulder to see the petite face of a young woman peering out from the slightly opened door to the Inn. Brown hair fell in disheveled array around her porcelain features, face bruised much like the boy's with the addition of one puffy eye swollen nearly shut. Still, beneath it all, he could see her beauty.

"It carries Gaspar's mark," the boy growled impressively. "Likely stole it."

Athos rushed to quell the accusation as the girl's face grew angry and fearful at the same time. "The horse was loaned to me by a farmer—"

"Antoine." She finished and opened the door wide enough to step out but kept her shawl pulled tight against her.

"Liar," the boy shot out. "He'd never willingly part with one of his horses, not to strangers."

"I was able to convince him of the truth in my mission," Athos explained.

"And that is?" the girl inquired.

"I seek information, regarding two friends of mine. I believe they recently traveled this way."

The boy flinched ever so slightly, it was enough for Athos to know they had been here.

But the youth would not be moved. "We don't like strangers here. Mount up and move on," he gritted out through clenched teeth. Watering eyes betrayed his anger as something more, and Athos knew something bad had happened here.

The young girl studied him, her gaze thoughtful, curious. "People come and go," she gave a small shrug, but she was clearly suspicious of some prevarication on his part. "You will have to be more specific."

"He can't be here, Colette," the lad interrupted, his voice angry and frustrated. "You know this. If the Marquis and his men come back…"

"Just let me handle this, Sébastien." Her eyes cut to Athos, studying him a moment. "So, friends, you say?"

Athos realized that she was testing him, looking for some foul play or deceit on his part. Perhaps she thought him one of Geroux's men, come back to fool them into revealing his friends' whereabouts. If indeed they knew something as he suspected they did, he needed to gain their trust and move the conversation to someplace else, somewhere that wasn't the middle of the street, where anyone could be eavesdropping. Anyone could be watching. Listening.

"Yes," he continued. "They are overdue in Paris and I came in search of them, to learn their whereabouts."

She arched an eyebrow. "Alone?"

"Yes," Athos responded, aware that the boy had lowered the weapon but stood watching their exchange. "There was no reason to suspect anything was awry and therefore no reason to retrace their path before now."

"They must be good friends for you to undertake such a journey by yourself."

"They are much more than friends to me," he proceeded, measuring his words carefully. "They are comrades," he said pointedly, "Brothers." He held his breath, hoping she understood how far he would go for those two men and how much they meant to him.

"Sébastien," the girl called out suddenly but did not take her eyes of Athos. "Stow that pistol and take the man's horse to the stable; get it out of sight."

"But… Colette."

"Hush now!" she snapped, looking at the lad. "Do as I say. And when you're done, you know what to do."

The boy peered stubbornly at Athos a moment before ambling over to take the reins from him. "Hurt her and I'll shoot you," he threatened. Then he gathered up the reins, gave only the slightest tug and soon the pair of them were off in the direction of the stable.

"Is he safe out there alone?" Athos turned to watch as boy and horse disappeared into the darkness of the small building.

"He'll be fine. The loft is a good place to watch for anyone who approaches, and if they do, he'll let us know."

A sense of urgency in her tone. "Come," she stepped quickly to one side and motioned him in. "This is a conversation best had in private."

Athos walked quickly up the steps. "You must be truly desperate," he said as he met her at the top, "if you've taken to arming children."

"There are no children here," she countered closing the door behind them. "Only survivors."

Athos meant to inquire further but as he walked into the inn, found himself at a loss for the devastation before him. He moved in further, careful of the debris hampering his entrance and stopped to gaze slowly around. The room was a wreck; pieces of smashed furniture littered the floor, surrounded by broken glass, drenched in puddles of what smelled like bad ale. In the hearth, a fire raged and the sole source of light made the glass glitter in the firelight.

"What happened here?" He turned and looked at the girl. "Does this have something to do with my friends?"

Colette seemed a little hesitant still. "Two good looking men, one tall and dark skinned, with an earring in one ear, and the other, kinda fancy—"

"Porthos and Aramis," Athos interrupted, eager to put to rest her continued suspicions. "They _were_  here then? If you've any information as to their whereabouts, you must tell me."

The girl opened her mouth to reply—

"Colette!" a gravelly, broken voice called out.

Colette's eyes shifted to a point just to Athos' left and the Musketeer followed her gaze. The call had come from a door just the opposite side of what was left of the tavern's countertop; it was slightly ajar, a low light emitting from within.

"Come. I'll show you exactly what happened." She moved past Athos, her footsteps crunching on the broken glass as she moved carefully past. Grabbing up a pitcher and a stack of neatly folded towels that sat on one of the few tables in the room still intact before disappearing into the room.

Athos, his heart full of dread, moved to follow, mindful of the cluttered the floor. Given the mood of the moment once he reached the open door he slowed to a stop and peered inside just as the young woman kneeled next to a bed. In it was a man in far worse shape than either the girl or the boy. He was an older man, perhaps in his early fifties, his condition adding years to his semblance.

"Th-thought I heard you talking to someone." A pair of watery eyes stared at Athos. "Who—" the words cut off by a bout of painful coughing.

Like Colette and Sébastien, he sported deep, dark bruising on his face, his nose appeared to be broken but unlike the other two, given the way he clutched at his sides as if he were trying to hold himself together, Athos feared it was the unseen injury that was far worse.

"My name is Athos of the King's Musketeers" he proceeded into the small chamber with authority while removing his cloak to reveal his uniform. He stopped within a few feet of the makeshift bed and gazed at the older man. "Who did this to you?" he looked at Colette. "All of you…"

Before he could answer, the man began coughing, his face twisting painfully. Colette helped him to a sitting position before pressing a cup to his lips. "The Marquis and his men," she responded while helping the injured man drink. He sipped carefully and the coughing subsided. "Payment for helping your friends."

"Friends," the injured man grabbed Colette's wrist and looked up at Athos. "You know th-those men?"

Athos nodded. "They are Musketeers, like me. I am here searching for them, monsieur…?"

"Renard…" he sighed and relaxed against the pillow. "Thank God."

Colette set the cup down and looked desperately at Athos. "We'll tell you all you need to know but you have to promise to help us as well. If Geroux and his men return empty handed, our lives are as good as over."

Athos looked at her curiously. "I assure you that I will do everything within my power to make sure they pay for what had been done. Please, what transpired here?"

Colette and Renard shared a look before the older man spoke. "I own this inn. For decades we have existed peaceably off the main road, offering the odd traveler refuge from weather, rest from the saddle, able to scrape by enough for a quiet life."

"Then a few months back," Colette continued when he seemed to fade. "Geroux showed up, and in his wake, more men like him. All terrible, answering to him, loitering about. Soon our lives turned at his every whim."

"How so?"

"They work for the Marquis and move under his authority," Colette said bitterly. "They appear together, usually surrounded by five or six of Geroux's men. We thought nothin' of it at first but then it became clear that they'd not come on the usual business, like collectin' taxes and such. No, the only thing they seemed interested in was terrorizing the few inhabitants of the village."

"And not just once," Renard added angrily. "It happens nearly every night. The Marquis and his men, they drink, play cards, harass the town-folk, and as time goes by, their harassment takes on a more serious tone."

"They are vicious, violent and without mercy," the girl included. "Beating old and sickly. Women and children, makes no difference, and God help you if you object or try to fight back."

Athos watched them quietly, listening. Their tale growing more absurd by the moment. "All this in the presence of the Marquis?" he interrupted.

Renard nodded painfully. "Not only in his presence," he added. "The bastard revels in it, egging his men on to greater cruelty. And he was here, at my tavern, almost every night, playing his wicked games while I," the innkeeper choked back a sob, "I did nothing.

A hush fell over the room, save for Renard's renewed coughing brought on by his emotions, Colette talking in reassuring tones as she wiped his brow, telling him there had been little any of them could do. That if he had, he'd have ended up dead.

Athos could not believe what he heard and began slowly shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but that…," he reached up and began rubbing at the bridge of his nose where a dull ache throbbed incessantly. "That makes no sense." He gazed at them in utter confusion. "No offense, but why would a member of the nobility stoop to remaining in the company of commoners outside of court, or his estate?"

Colette shrugged. "Dunno," she looked at Renard. "Never seen the like; a nobleman acting as he does," Colette agreed. "A regular visitor, playing cards, sneering as Geroux and his men torment us. Nonsensical as it is, it's the truth."

"You must believe us," Renard pleaded, watery eyes imploring the Musketeer. "Like you, we did no-not know what to make of this turn of events. But then, things have changed even at the Marquis' estate."

Athos canted his head to one side. "You have been to his estate?"

The innkeeper nodded. "I only ever visited m'Lord once, it was more than a dozen years back when I petitioned to take over the inn, after the previous owner passed. The man I met then was in his fifties, far different from the one who comes here now. This one is younger. I believe him to be one of the Marquis' sons."

Athos nodded. Still, this was… remarkable. He could only guess that if either Aramis or Porthos had witnessed this cruelty, they would not have stood idly by; rattling the ire of the nobility would be just like them… "And my friends, how did they come into conflict with the Marquis and his men?"

"That's when everything went to piss and vinegar," Colette offered. "When Geroux and his bunch got tired of harassing the locals, they turned their games on unsuspecting travelers. It was the odd beating at first but their cruelty took in new depths. Blood sport, they called it."

Athos felt his heart freeze in his chest. "What exactly do they do?"

"Usually they overwhelm the traveler, strip him of his shoes and set him loose on foot before hunting him down and…"

"They kill them," Renard finished, his tone final.

"And they've done this to others?" Athos asked quietly, his voice deceptively calm.

"Too many to count." Renard said brokenly. "And we let them. We did nothing. Too busy hiding behind our own cowardice."

Athos turned and walked toward the door, gazing out at the wreckage of the main room. It no longer mattered the reasoning behind these events; clearly his friends' lives were in danger and he had to get to them.

"That's how this happened," he said more to himself than to the others. They intended that fate for my friends…"

"Yes, "Colette answered. "Once I realized Aramis was a Musketeer, I persuaded him to take his friend and leave. To inform the King of our troubles, though he did not wish to leave us to these wolves." She turned toward Renard, her countenance softening. "And you tried to stop Geroux, and that nearly got you killed."

"I was ashamed," the wounded man said bitterly. "I could not call myself a man and let this continue. So I grabbed my pistol and followed after Geroux and his men but… I fear I was not fast enough."

"What happened?" Athos turned to look at the old man.

"I stepped out in time to see…" the innkeeper glanced at Colette who only looked away, her eyes filled with sorrow, "Aramis being hit by musket fire a couple of times, I think. I… it was dark. I am sorry..." he said mournfully

Athos paced across the room and leaned in anxiously to Renard. "Were they alive when they left?"

Renard shrank back into this bed, as if to escape his intensity. "I—yes. Barely, but I believe so. At least one of them was. I cannot vouch for the other."

Athos stomach twisted in a painful knot. While he desperately needed certainties, these people had nothing to offer him but suffering and doubt. "It is not for you to apologize or mourn them." he straightened, fearing he'd lose their trust if he continued in such a manner, but he would not accept their assessment. He could not. "I know these men, if they drew breath when they rode out, they are still alive. It would take more than a few shots to kill them."

"Of course," Renard offered. "Please," he struggled to sit up, "wh-what can we do to help?"

Athos looked from the old man to the girl next to his bed, they gazed at him with eager, honest eyes. Nothing deceptive or betraying. "How long ago did all this take place?"

"Last night," Renard tried to think, "around eleven in the evening, I believe."

"Aramis could barely sit his horse…" Colette looked down at her hands, sadness overtaking her.

Athos nodded and looked anywhere but at the girl who seemed to grieve them already. No. He would not believe it. Aramis dead. This could not be. He would not conceive of such a thing. "You don't believe the Marquis and his men have caught up to them?"

Renard shook his head, wincing at the pain it brought him. "If he had, he'd have brought them back to the village, made examples of them before us all. The Marquis d'Evroux's cruelty must be assuaged."

"And how many men does the Marquis d'Evroux have?"

"Thirty last I heard, but Colette swears there's more. Hardly men though; most are cowards at best. Only in for what they can take easily."

Colette's face clouded with anger. "Which is why his men only tried to take your friends down when their backs were turned."

Athos felt his own anger crest. "The Marquis and his men, where are they now?"

"Out looking for them, I'm afraid. They met in the village and split into two groups before leaving," Renard interjected. "Best we could tell, one headed east, the other west."

"It was well before sun-up," Colette added eagerly.

"Yes…" Athos scowled. "I believe I met up with one of the groups on our journey here. The man leading them had bright red hair—"

"That's Geroux," Colette spat in response. She placed a hand on her bruised cheek and looked down.

"So I've heard," Athos didn't have to ask to know he'd given her that, and probably the black eye as well. Likely there were other scars far deeper than he wanted to know of but knew enough not to discount. He watched, however, as Renard reached out a shaky hand to take hers in comfort. Yes. Geroux was as bad as he feared.

"Then I must find my friends," Athos murmured, eager now to get to them, the task seemingly overwhelming against the vast amount of terrain to cover. "Preferably before the Marquis and his men do."

"Alone?" Renard asked with no small amount of concern.

Athos looked at the injured man. "I traveled here with another but when we ran in to that first group of men, I dispatched him back to Paris for reinforcements." He walked determinedly over to a nearby window and gazed out at the vast surrounding area. "It was shortly after that, and meeting Antoine that we realized the depth of our friend's predicament."

"Colette," Renard said after a moment, the girl turning to meet his gaze. "Get Sébastien." A look passed between them and she seemed to bolt from the room with a new energy Athos had not seen since he arrived.

Once she was out of the room, Athos looked curiously at Renard and the older man explained. "My nephew is the only reason we do not starve. The Marquis no longer allows hunting on his lands, another of his new decrees and most harsh as it would have us starved. Without my knowledge at first, Sébastien began hunting game in ways that kept the Marquis unaware. I've no idea how but he's managed to bring back plenty of small game for us. He knows these woods like no other. He can help you."

Athos nodded. It wasn't a practice he was unfamiliar with and did annoy him. "He sounds like a clever boy, but I cannot promise his safety. It will be dangerous."

"And living here isn't?" Renard put in; Athos conceded the point with a nod prompting the innkeeper to continue. "Besides, he is a tracker without equal. If anyone can find your friends, he can. And… he already did, to a point."

Athos canted his head in question and was about to press when Colette returned, dragging young Sébastien by the hand behind her. In the center of the room, the boy stopped as the girl went back to stand next to Renard. A defiant look on his face, the youth gazed up at Athos.

"Come here boy," Renard waved a hand to urge him over. Sébastien complied before waiting patiently for instruction. "This man is Athos and he is a friend to those men who were here last night. Tell him what you saw after they left."

"A friend…?" Sébastien looked Athos over, eyes dark and guarded. "All the more reason we send him away. We don't need more trouble."

"Sébastien," Colette walked over to the boy and knelt before him. "What happened to his friends was none of their doing. They tried to in order to help us. I told you that."

Sébastien seemed to relax some but his anger was not so easily placated. "What makes you and your _friends_  so special that we should care?"

"They are Musketeers," Renard answered, drawing the boy's attention. "They work only for the King."

"So," he replied petulantly. "Just 'cuz he say's so, don't make him one." Turning he glared at Athos. "People lie all the time."

"Sébastien!" Colette snapped and made to approach the boy.

Athos held a hand up to her, quieting further rebuke. Holding the boy's obstinate gaze, he smoothly unbuttoned the top buttons of his cape and tugged the garment away, revealing his full uniform before turning to tap the pauldron on his shoulder. "My friends would have been wearing something like this. It is the marking of the King's' elite soldiers, the Musketeers."

"Soldiers…" Sébastien echoed thoughtfully. "Like when you fought in the war?" he asked the old man.

"I did," he looked at Athos quickly then back to the boy. "You remember those stories. I told you, how one of the men I served with later gave his life for me." Sébastien nodded. "Athos is here to help his friends, and if we are very fortunate, he will see much trouble come to the Marquis for siding against the King's guard."

Athos nodded and met Sébastien's gaze once more. "I will see to it, when I get back to Paris, that the King is made aware of what is going on here. The Marquis needs to be held accountable for how he's mistreated you…" he caught Colette's eye. "All of you. But first, I must find my friends before the Marquis and his men."

Renard took the boy's hand, turning him to face him again. "Tell him what you told me about the two men who were here last night, what happened after they left." Nodding, Sébastien turned and faced Athos.

"I work the stables and took their horses when they arrived. I always rub them down and clean their hooves. I noticed then that the big man's horse had a notch in its front left shoe. When your friends rode out, the weight would make the indentation of the hoof easier to track."

Athos nodded. "They have almost a full day head start though. You think you can pick up their trail? Even now?"

Sébastien smirked. "I followed your friends for a-ways when they left. I found where they stopped and tended the injured one. I got back to town not long after and overheard the Marquis and his men discussing their plans to search." He shook his head. "Idiots. They were going entirely the wrong direction. They might pick up the trail at some point, but the Marquis employs thugs, not thinkers."

It was Athos turn to smirk, though more reserved. He could only hope the boy was right. "And when you got back to town, that's how this happened?" he asked motioning to the bruises on his face.

Sébastien was a mixture of sad and angry. "They were hurting Colette and my uncle. I tried to stop them and…" he shrugged helplessly. "I failed."

"Well then," Athos placed his hat on his head. "Lets see what we can do to stop them from hurting someone else." Tossing his cape over his shoulder he placed a reassuring hand on Sébastien's shoulder. "When can you be ready to leave?"

* * *

 

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am in debt to my beta's, Natty (aka Adrenalineshots) and Sue Pokorny. If any of my prattling makes sense in this story, it is in large part due to them. If any of it does not, it's because I cannot help but tweek before I post. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely artwork at the end of this chapter is a gift from my dear friend and one of my beta's, Natty (Adrenalinshots) It is, quite simply, the nicest compliment that this chapter inspired such vision, such beauty. 
> 
> I'm ... I'm undone by the generosity. It captures the heart of Porthos' and Aramis' friendship for me.

**Chapter 8**

D’Artagnan could scarce contain himself, a smile breaking across his face as his horse stretched out beneath him. Taking full advantage of the animal’s ground eating pace, he leaned into its neck, letting out the reins, the shift of weight alone encouraging the animal to greater speeds. Its hooves pounded into the hard packed ground in a rhythm so smooth it left him feeling as if he were gliding.

The late-day sun on his back, wind in his face, he could almost forget the purpose of his haste. Almost. But never far from his thoughts, the plight of his friends took center stage, tempering his smile, making him tighten his knees around the horse's girth. The animal tossed its head and pushed harder.

In the interest of making good time, the Gascon chose a different route back to Paris. Here the terrain proved quite different and at times, treacherous. It was a rash decision he knew, but one he felt he could navigate given his skill as a horsemen and the knowledge he possessed of the perilous grounds.

When the area became a maze of ravines and sharp drops, he slowed pace and with great care, guided the horse on the surfaces between. It was during one of those slower moments that he glanced at the sky to gauge the sun’s position and smiled. He knew then that his choice of routes was a wise one; he would make it back to Paris well before evening repast.

When the ground flattened out before him, he gave the animal its head, mindful of the ravine further on and to his right. With plenty of flat ground to his left, he maneuvered the animal over and lost himself in the renewed pace once more.

Mind once more focused on his destination and the task before him, though clouded with thoughts of his friends and fear for their well-being, he rounded a boulder unaware of the group of men who launched from a shadowy copse of trees ahead to block his path.

Eyes wide, he grabbed a handful of mane and pulled hard on the reins. “Woah!” he shouted, leaning back as the horse's hooves dug into the ground in a frantic attempt to obey.

The horse shrieked in frustration and they just managed to avoid collision as they came to a stop. Not at all pleased with the sudden change of trajectory, his mount reared and whinnied its shrill disapproval. When its front legs hit the ground, the horse danced in an anxious spin taking them both perilously close to the edge of the ravine to their right. It was all d’Artagnan could do to keep the animal from sending them both over the edge and when he finally succeeded he squinted into the shadows in an attempt to assess the men foolhardy enough to have advanced in front of a racing horse.

“Are you mad?” He shouted at his interlopers. “Can you not see I must make haste? Move aside!”

The men sat silently atop their mounts and neither answered nor moved. D’Artagnan’s teeth ground in frustration; there was no time to take a stand. Spying a large gap in their numbers and hoping to bypass trouble, he wheeled the horse and made to go around.

Another half dozen riders emerged from the shadows to block his path.

D’Artagnan’s horse reared slightly and spun away, head tossing, seemingly certain of what its rider wanted before he asked it of him, and dove for the right, only to find that path blocked by still more men. All that was left to him was the ravine on the other side and it was no option at all.

With the animal’s frenetic spinning under control, he glared at the group. “I am d’Artagnan of the King’s Musketeers. Remove yourselves from my path at once and I will forget this happened!”

“A Musketeer!” a vaguely familiar voice rang out from behind him. “Boys,” the voice continued gleefully, “I’d no idea we were in such esteemed company earlier.”

D’Artagnan slammed his eyes shut and cursed under his breath. Amid the chuckling of those surrounding him, he turned his horse and came face to face with Red. Or the man he knew now as Geroux. An ugly sneer on his face, the red haired man sat easily upon his mount, a pistol in one hand aimed directly at him.

“You’re making a big mistake,” d’Artagnan seethed through gritted teeth. “Stop this now and I shall speak to the King on your behalf for leniency.”

“The King,” Geroux scoffed. “You think he’d take the word of a bunch of peasants against one of his loyal Marquis?”

“Probably not, but he would the word of four of his Musketeers.”

“Not if they’re dead,” the leader sneered and sat back in his saddle as his men nodded in agreement. “Four you say,” Geroux glanced around. “Don’t see the other one around. No matter,” he shook his head, “like you, we’ll find him soon enough.”

“Even if you kill me now,” D’Artagnan shot back, “my friends are still out there and I’m sure you’ve found out by now, we don’t die easily.”

Geroux’s face clouded with anger as his men began buzzing nervously around him. D’Artagnan had struck a nerve and a reckless sense of pride swelled within his chest, even as he faced insurmountable odds.

“One of’em was hit,” Geroux shouted angrily, silencing his men. “Struck twice by my count. Doubt he made it through the night and if he did, I’m sure the Marquis and his group are closing in. Probably dead by now.”

D’Artagnan gripped the reins of his horse tightly. “You won’t get away with this Geroux.”

Geroux’s head rocked back in surprise. “I don’t recall giving you my name…” His gaze traveled down to the horse d’Artagnan sat upon. “I see the farmer I mentioned earlier was most accommodating with both mount and information.”

“Thought he didn’t have any more of them horses…” a man to his right murmured, looking at his boss curiously.

“My mistake for not checking more thoroughly.” He looked at d’Artagnan pointedly. “A mistake I will remedy when I stop by his farm to thank him personally for making me so well known.”

D’Artagnan felt his blood boil. “Anything happens to them—”

“And you’ll do what, exactly?” Geroux taunted, his men laughing quietly. “See, you’ll be too dead to do anything. Or have you not figured that part out yet? And here I thought the King's Musketeers were both brawn and brains. Seems I was wrong.”

Around him, Geroux’s men peeled with laughter and d'Artagnan could only sit and glare. Outnumbered and outgunned, he needed a distraction. A way to get them off balance and get away. He needed to— he suddenly had a wonderfully terrible idea. One he knew might seal his death, but the only chance he had to secure his freedom. The narrow bend ahead would give him just enough cover if he could reach it and his horse would give him the speed he needed. He just had to hope and pray…

“Hah!” d’Artagnan shouted and viciously jammed the heels of his boots into his horse's’ sides.

The shock of the moment seemed to work. The horse simultaneously lurched and reared, all four legs leaving the ground in a strange sort of hop. It had the desired effect, landing in perilously close to Geroux’ horse and the animal took the intrusion badly.

Geroux’s horse shied violently to one side, enough for d’Artagnan to maneuver passed. He didn’t dare look back but heard Geroux’s men shout in alarm, hoping they too were struggling as badly as Geroux to regain control of their horses. He maintained his momentum and kicked his horse to greater speed as they made a break for the bend in the road ahead, back the way he’d come. He could worry about correcting his route later, when he was safe and away from his pursuers.

Beneath him the horse stretched out its neck, nose flaring at the sudden demand for more speed, eyes fixed on the way ahead as D’Artagnan did the same, leaning once more into the animal’s neck to give them greater movement against the wind. His heart swelled. They’d made it. He’d get back to Paris.

A sudden, burst of pain shot along his skull. The blast of a pistol following suit. Bright. Hot. Burning.

He cried out in agony as his vision blurred. His hands lost their ability to grasp the reins and before he could comprehend it, he was falling.

The ground rushed to meet him and all too soon, the impact sent him into a deep, dark oblivion.

Geroux sat back on his horse and holstered his pistol. Two of his men, having managed to regain control of their mounts, galloped up to pull alongside him and stopped.

“So much for _d’Artagnan of the King’s Musketeer_ s,” the man to his left sneered, a mocked impersonation of the tone d’Artagnan had used only moments ago.

The man on his left nodded. “You want us to check, make sure he’s dead?”

“That ravine is leagues deep,” another scoffed. “No one could survive a fall like that.”

“That may be but,” a fourth man put in as he pulled alongside Geroux. “The boy’s right about one thing, Musketeers ain’t easy to kill, make no mistake.”

A rotund man next to him chuckled. “I dunno, that last one was easy enough.” The men around him chuckled lightly but a few were not so convinced.

“You seem to know a lot about Musketeers, Hubert.” someone ventured to ask.

Hubert glanced at Geroux. The leader shot him a look of warning that he chose to ignore. “A bit,” he looked at the men. “Enough to know, they don’t call’m the King’s elite guard for nothin’.”

The men murmured anxiously amongst themselves. Some having taken Hubert’s words to heart, others clearly unconvinced. Geroux knew men who worked for money. It would not due to convince even one of them this wasn’t a worthwhile venture or there’d be no amount of money he could offer to keep them loyal.

“Soldiers!” Geroux interrupted, his voice crisp and final. “Just. Soldiers. Nothing more,” he added, glaring at Hubert before turning on the rest of his men. “So this one was traveling with another, probably a Musketeer too, likely out looking for the two we’re chasin’. We ride back and fast. None of ‘em gets back to Paris alive. There’s an extra livre for any man who kills one of the other three.”

A cheer went up from the men and they milled about long enough to get their horses turned and headed out in a spray of dust and dirt. Before he could follow, Geroux reached out and caught Hubert’s horse by the rein and held him back until they were alone.

“Next time you open your mouth about Musketeers, I’ll put a musket ball in you,” Geroux growled. “Do I make myself clear?”

Hubert looked at him a moment, as if to argue but nodded. “They won’t hear nuthin’ more from me.”

If he’d had any sense, Geroux would have plugged him right there and then, while the others were off and away. Then blamed it on his horse stumbling and breaking his neck. But he knew he’d need every man he could get because in his gut, he knew Hubert was right. They’d already bit off more than they could handle and if he had any brains, he’d take his men and find easier money elsewhere.

But pride and greed were terrible traits in a man with little else to live for...

Porthos grabbed the reins of their horses and lead the exhausted animals out of the thick copse of trees where he’d stashed them earlier. He guided them over to the slope and stumbled up the incline that lead toward the cave, lacking his usual grace; his own fatigue was catching up with him.

After settling Aramis within the relative safety of the cavern on the makeshift bed assembled of their cloaks and blankets, Porthos had then built a fire and got their cooking utensils from their gear. Even half conscious, the marksman maintained lucidity enough to instruct him to fill both pots with nearly all of their remaining water supply, and in the smaller pot, the right herb to combat fever and pain. When all was said and done, both pots were steaming nicely, save for the larger one which had only just begun to emit vapors from the opening.

Struggling up the hill, Porthos thought exhaustively of all that had been done and yet, a great many tasks still lay ahead. But at least they would be out of sight and no longer on the move. It was a respite they sorely needed.

Nearing the entrance to the cave and knowing the horses would not go willingly inside, Porthos braced for resistance. But got quite the opposite. Rather than shying or pulling back, the animals lurched forward, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Confused, Porthos tried reining them in. “Woah,” he hissed loudly. “Easy there.”

Not placated by his demands, they defiantly tossed their heads and nearly broke from his grasp, moving at a near gallop _toward_ the cavern.

“Hey!” Porthos shouted and pulled on their reins.

The animals paid him no mind and jerked him along with them. The leather straps slipped in his grasp, the friction burning flesh and he dropped them with a hiss of pain, watching as the horses made a nearly manic lurch to move to the back of the cave. He caught up with them in five long strides and soon saw the source of their drive.

Water.

Thirsty beyond reason, the horses had smelled its presence long before Porthos had gotten close enough to hear the quiet trickling as it oozed from a crack in the wall.  At the base of the fissure, water pooled into a stone that had been carved out over time from the constant impact of the pattering liquid, easily deep enough for their mounts to drink greedily of its contents.

Their muzzles buried in the water, Porthos chuckled. “Well I’ll be damned.”

“Is all well?”

The dark skinned Musketeer turned and grinned at Aramis. “A natural spring, here at the back of the cave.” He scooped up some of the water trickling from the crack and put it to his mouth. “Ah,” he sighed at the taste, “And it’s cold too. Almost as good as ale!” After another drink, he shook the excess water from his hand. “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect that God of yours really is looking after us.”

The marksman was reclined on their rolled blankets, his dark eyes glittering in the firelight that illuminated the room. While his face was pale, evident even in the poorly lit cave, their improved fortunes had at least lifted both spirits some.

Aramis grinned and settled deeper into the makeshift bedding. “Not just my God, mon ami,” he said with a touch of reverence, tongue darting out to lick his parched lips.

“If you say so,” he mumbled and walked over to the other side of the cave where their saddles and packs lay on the dirt floor. He picked up their last, nearly empty water skin, moved swiftly to the cool well and filled it before returning to kneel next to the marksman. “Drink,” he ordered gently and lifted his friends head to press the opening to his dry lips. “Nice and cold, yeah?”

Where earlier, they’d had to ration their water, the presence of a fresh supply, coupled with his own clawing thirst burned into him by the raging fever, lead the marksman to drink greedily for the first time in many hours. But with his thirst slaked, and likely tempered by exhaustion, he soon pushed the container back and Porthos righted the skin as he lowered Aramis’ head back to makeshift bedding.

“The fever tea next,” Aramis panted, eyes blinking slowly. “A-add some of the cool water t-to ease the heat some.”

Porthos nodded and grabbed one of the cups from their gear. He stalked to where the horses milled around and pressed the clay up to the larger crack, letting the fresh water fill the container half way. Moving back to the fire, he filled it with some of the tea and knee-walked back to where Aramis lay. Steadying the cup he helped the marksman drink, noting his brow furrowed as the liquid hit his lips.

“Tastes horrid, yeah?” Porthos offered with a wry smile then helped right the container and set it down.

“God that’s terrible…” Aramis huffed. “Do-don’t know how you drink that.”

“Easy,” Porthos grinned, “I got this pushy friend that won’t back off when I’m hurt.”

Aramis actually chuckled only to pull up suddenly, his face tightening into a grimace as he grabbed at his side. The brief moment of levity fled and Porthos placed a staying hand on his friend’s shoulder. After a moment, Aramis nodded and settled back, exhaustion, pain and fever combining to drain the color from his face.

Slowly the marksman’s eyes opened. “Best we get that tincture ready…” he breathed softly. “While I still have all my sense.”

“Right,” Porthos jumped to his feet and moved swiftly to where he’d left the sack-cloth of Lady’s Mantle from next to their gear and brought it over to their cook fire. “What do I do?” When no instruction came, the dark skinned musketeer turned and sighed.

The marksman’s face was locked in a grimace against another unseen pain. “Is—,” his jaw clamped tight, “is the water boiling?” Aramis asked through gritted teeth.

Reluctant to take his eyes off his friend, Porthos dragged his gaze to look inside the pot and sat back, his face grim. “Startin’ to.”

Nodding, Aramis winced and shifted on the bedding. “It will— have to do,” he moaned, long and mournful, moving restlessly.

Porthos knew what was coming. “Hey…” he placed a hand on his shoulder. “Think past it, Aramis. What do I do next?”

With great determination, Aramis opened his eyes and Porthos was nearly undone by the cry for relief that shone in his watery gaze. “Sh—shake off any excess d-dirt an’ pack as many as you can into the larger pot.”

Already ahead of him, Porthos shoved one plant after another into the pot, not slowing down until the displaced water rose near the edge of the container. He stopped and sat back on his haunches. “I think that’s all I can fit.” Glancing from the pot to his friend he froze; Aramis’ eyes were closed; he was no longer jerking against the pain but a slight tremor persisted. “Now what can I do?”

“Now, we wait,” Aramis breathed so softly Porthos could barely hear him. “The plants ha-have to dispel their juices into the water.”

“How long does that take?”

“Fresh plants…” Aramis opened his eyes and stared up at the jagged ceiling of the cave. “Ca—can’t be sure.”

Porthos looked down at his hands, the ooze from the freshly picked foliage coating his palms. “Well, if it’s the juices in the plant, there’s plenty already.” He looked at the steaming water in the pot then back at Aramis. “If they’re not fresh, I’d imagine the juices have dried inside the stems.”

Aramis turned and gazed thoughtfully at his friend, a slow smile softening the pain lined on his face. “You are right, mon ami. Perhaps an hour will suffice.”

Porthos nodded, pride and relief mingling with growing concern. “Just in case you ain’t feelin’ too good later, what do I do next?”

Aramis swallowed but nodded, understanding the implication. “Cool at— at the back of the cave where it’s coldest.” He turned his head and closed his eyes. “Then the part I will hate most. You’ll need to wa-wash the wounds out.”

Porthos’ eyes traveled to the location on Aramis’ side where the worst of the two injuries lay hidden beneath wadded bandaging, the stench of the flesh still a memory too recently revealed. “It’ll hurt won’t it?”

Aramis nodded slightly. “M-more than I care to-to admit.” Before Porthos could interject, the marksman placed a tremulous hand on his arm. “Better pa-pain now than the absence of life, no?”

Porthos ground his teeth at the necessity of it all but soon gave a curt nod and drew himself up straight.  “An hour, right?” Aramis nodded and Porthos put more wood on the fire. “Then get some rest,” he arranged the wood to allow for air to reach the burning logs. “I’ll let you know when time’s passed.”

“There!” Sébastien tapped Athos leg and he pulled the horse to a stop. Sébastien pointed to a copse of trees. “I found first sign of them over there.”

“And what made you so sure they stopped there?”

Sébastien pulled something from his pocket and showed it to the musketeer. “They wore capes when they first arrived in Chaîne des Puys, buttons on them like this one.”

Athos stared at the brass fixture before taking it from the boy and turning it over in his palm. “Damn.”

“I found it in the trees. Along with grass that had been pressed down and…well. Blood.”

“Alright.” Athos swallowed and looked back at the boy, one brow arched. “You’ve convinced me. You followed from here?”

“No, I returned to the village. I had to help my uncle and Colette.”

Athos nodded. “Can you pick up their trail from here?”

Sébastien smiled and slid off the horse. He circled the heavily wooded area, stopping every now and again to study the ground. He walked carefully but with purpose until he stopped and pointed. “Here, the bigger man’s horse, it’s got the notched shoe.”

Athos was too concerned to comment on the boy’s astute observation, instead only nodding grimly at the boy. “Lead on then.”

Smiling once more, the boy turned and trotted, his eyes cast down at the ground for sign. They made a short distance before he stopped, Athos pulling up shortly after. “Is something wrong?”

Sébastien didn’t look up, only stared at the ground, his brow furrowed. “Other tracks.” He looked worriedly at Athos. “These belong to the Marquis’ men.”

“Am I to ask how you know this for certain?”

Sébastien seemed to shuffle uncomfortably where he stood, almost reluctant to respond. “I mark the shoes of any horse belonging to the Marquis.”

Athos brow raised. “Any particular reason?”

The boy squinted up at Athos. “I know where they move about so that I know where to hunt and not get caught.” He shrugged small shoulders.

“How do you tell them from Porthos’ horse?”

“Simple,” he shrugged. “I carved a ‘p’ on each set of horse shoe. If his men ever notice it, I can always say it stands for Puys.”

“But in reality it stands for…?” Athos enquired.

“Prick,” the boy answered with an open smile.

“Of course,” Athos said hiding a smile. He knew the Marquis had mistreated these people and they’d had to make due. It would have been insult to injury if they’d known a small boy was outsmarting them – an insult he hoped to convey personally, along with a little injury. “Can you tell how old the tracks are?”

Sébastien knelt and studied the grass. “Hours, perhaps... three or more.” Standing he walked around, head still down. “Too many tracks for just a single horse.” He looked worriedly at Athos. “I think one of the search parties went this way.”

Athos mouth pulled into a grim line. “Seems you’re not the only expert at tracking.”

“What, Geroux and his bunch you mean?” Sébastien scoffed. “Not tracking, just dumb luck. Like my uncle says, even a blind squirrel gets a nut once in a while.”

The swordsman canted his head in a diminutive bow. “Your uncle is a wise man.” The boy beamed up at him and Athos pressed. “What more can you deduce from this mess of churned grass and dirt?”

The youth’s face took on a determined edge as he moved about in a circle, his eyes busily going over the ground, as if listening to some silent language whispering words only he could understand. Athos hung back, alert, careful to keep his horses’ tracks out of the mix in hopes of avoiding confusion, but inside he was eager to keep moving.

With each pass, Sébastien’s circle widened until finally he turned, suddenly sure of himself and jogged back to Athos. “Help me up!”

Athos extended an arm and the boy grabbed it, swinging up on the back of the horse. “They headed east and the Marquis’ men went south. Told you— blind squirrels and nuts. If your men went where I think they did, they’ll find good cover.”

“Well then,” Athos kicked the horse into motion, “perhaps Aramis and Porthos found some luck as well.”

 

Porthos spent the time waiting for the mixture to stew to readiness, attempting to convince himself that he could do this. That he _would_ do this. That inflicting immeasurable pain on his best friend was right, was okay just so long as it saved his life.

It was all bollocks.

The first drop of offensive liquid to the wound and he was squirming alongside Aramis. Trying hard to control his own shaking hands, biting into his lip to stop himself from cursing a blue streak. Tasting the coppery tinge of blood as he bit too deep, though none of the pain.

Thinking about it, as it turned out when he finally started, was one thing. Actually doing it was quite another.

Porthos simply lost track of time. He’d no idea how long they’d been at it, but it felt like an eternity. He’d poured one cup after another of the rancid liquid on the wound, flushing the putrid fluid as instructed. Moving fast, doing his best to ignore the way Aramis writhed against the incessant pain. And if it burned anything like the bit that had seeped into a small cut on Porthos’ hand, the constant barrage of fluid had to scorch like fire on the torn flesh.

It was no wonder Aramis struggled to stay quiet.  Worried about giving away their position when he no longer possessed the will to staunch his cries, Porthos had grabbed a piece of kindling near the woodpile used for their cook fire, and pressed it between the marksman’s teeth.

“Bite down, Aramis. This’ll be over soon.”

God let it be over soon.  Another cup and he watched Aramis body draw bow-string tight. Another and he watched him shake uncontrollably. Then another and he watched Aramis jaw lock around the wood in his mouth, his neck arch, the tendons stand out beneath his flesh.

Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, Porthos dipped the cup back into the larger pot. His hands were shaking, his heart hurt. He’d wanted to stop sooner but they’d not gone nearly far enough; yellowish pus continued to leak from the wound, an indicator that the infectious poison still remained.

A loud crack split the damp air and he looked back at his friend. Aramis groaned, turned his head to one side and spat splintered wood from his mouth, panting.

Porthos nearly stopped then.

Instead, Aramis reached a hand blindly for something at the back of his head. “K’p going,” he growled and tugged a part of the leather coat around and stuffed a corner in his mouth.

So Porthos had choked back the bile threatening to expel and did as he was told. Cup after bloody cup. Pained cries stifled on battle torn leather. A fight for life as real as all the battles he’d seen in that very garment, and with this man who’d become more brother to him than any he’d known.

That friend started trembling as if he’d rattle apart before his very eyes and finally, Porthos had found his end. Only fresh blood now seeped from the wound, flowing red and clean.

“Okay, that’s it, dammit” he shook his head angrily and dropped the cup in the pot. Picking up the bandage he prepared to dry and pack the wound. “Enough, ‘Mis. I ain’t doin’ this no more.”

The marksman lifted a trembling hand and clutched Porthos arm. The dark skinned man braced for a fight on this. For all the strength in Aramis’ grip, he could have easily shrugged him off and done as he pleased, and part of him wanted to do just that because he had a feeling Aramis was not about to let him stop, and if it were necessary to continue he would, God help him. He would…

So Porthos decided to wait him out, watching as he trembled from not only the fever, but the pain he’d caused him. Watching as beads of sweat bathed his torso and head in the amber glow of the fire.  Watching as he tried to recover his ravaged voice from all the failed attempts to not cry out in pain… watched as blood oozed from the wound and flowed down his side to cover the ruined shirt he’d placed there to keep the bedding from soaking through as much as possible. Just blood this time around, still, the sight of it was a harsh reminder that he could not wait long. Aramis could ill afford to lose more.

“Yo—you,” Aramis closed his eyes and swallowed convulsively, breathing harshly against the recent pain. Eyes watery and mere slits, he looked at Porthos “... can stop.”

Porthos sighed, his shoulders sagging in relief. He gently peeled Aramis’ hand from his forearm and returned it carefully to his side. “Thank god,” he growled as he scooped up the clean bandages. “You know I’m no good at this.”

“Did good, mon ami,” Aramis replied hoarsely, hand patting at Porthos leg, the gesture clumsy and unfocused.

“Should’ve been me that was shot,” Porthos grumbled as he wadded the cloth and pressed it to the wound.

“S-stop saying that,” Aramis snapped huskily. Eyes open, they were dark with a mixture of pain and frustration. Grabbing Porthos’ arm, he gritted his teeth and rose minutely to press his point. “We-we are brothers. There is nothing we wouldn’t give to save one another. Do not take that from me.”

Porthos stilled and held his friend's gaze. Guilt turned inside out; Aramis was right. It was no less than any of them would have done for the other and he had to get past that. “Sorry ‘Mis,” he whispered. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I just—,” he looked away.

Something hit his shoulder and he turned back to see Aramis’ hand on his arm. “Understand…” he said, the outburst clearly costing him as he grimaced and sank back on the doublet Porthos had wadded up and placed beneath his head. “C-could really use…” his eyes drifted closed and he swallowed, “more of that tea.”

Porthos brow furrowed. “Now I know you’re hurtin if you’re asking for that horse piss.” He left the wadded bandage in place on the wound and filled the cup with more of the tea from the smaller pot.

Aramis smiled. “Perfectly adequate comparison, mon ami.”

After the marksman finished another cup of the willow bark tea, Porthos helped him settle back against the bedding, the waves of heat rolling off of his friend making the cave too warm. Once he was settled he looked around for the medic’s kit.

“Okay,” he clapped his hands together, “lets get that stitched.”

“No…” Aramis cleared his throat.

Porthos looked back at his friend and huffed. “I know my needle work ain’t as fancy as yours but it’ll at least keep you together, which is the point.”

“Your needlework is not the issue.” He stared hard at his friend, a reluctant set to his jaw.

“What then—” Porthos eyes slammed shut. The answer hit him before he finished. It was in the deathly pale look on Aramis’ face.

“Stitches won’t hold inflamed flesh,” the marksman continued, voice quiet determination and perhaps some fear. “You’ll have to…”

“Cauterize,” Porthos finished and dropped his head. “Dammit.” God, the smell of burned flesh -- even his own -- made his stomach roll, even the idea of it. He took several breaths, thankful for Aramis’ quiet patience, before meeting his friend’s gaze.

“Believe me,” Aramis said stiffly, “if there were any other way…”

And it he meant it too. It was plain to see in the unease with which he spoke, the slight tremble in his voice. For all their courage and fearlessness in battle, he was no more overjoyed at the prospect of being on the receiving end of such a process than Porthos was at having to administer it. The last time either of them had been around someone in need of such a treatment, they’d both had to deal with rebellious stomachs afterwards. Not to mention losing their taste for meat for a long while after

So if Aramis needed bolstering, Porthos would be his rock. “Alright then,” he pulled his main gauche from its sheath, “we’ll do this together.” He set the blade in the reddest part of the fire’s flames and sat back, hoping he appeared more confident than he felt. “‘Least it’ll be quick, yeah? My stitches would’ve taken forever and you’d have been begging me to stop.”

“Hmm…” Aramis consented, one side of his mouth tipping upward.  “Or f-fallen asleep from boredom.”

Porthos chuckled and picked up the cup they’d been using for the willow bark tea. “How about more horse piss then?” he smiled for his friend’s sake though felt none of it inside.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Porthos helped Aramis drink, frowning when he pushed it away sooner than he’d liked.

“Taste aside, I really,” Aramis panted and closed his eyes. “Cannot drink any more…”

Porthos set the cup next to the cook fire, his eyes purposely avoiding the blade, the tip heating in the flames. He checked to make sure he had plenty of bandages, grabbed a few more just in case. He removed Aramis’ torn, ruined shirt where he’d placed it beneath him, adjusted the cover which consisted of Aramis’ cloak, keeping it just above his waistline, letting the cool of the cave help tamp down the fever. He dipped a cloth in more of the chilled spring water, and wiped his friend’s brow once more, like he’d done so many times previously since they’d arrived.

“Porthos,” the marksman called quietly and the big man stilled. “I think that blade should be hot enough now.”

The dark skinned musketeer exhaled a breath he’d not known he was holding. He’d been stalling and Aramis knew it. He looked at the dagger. The tip was red, practically glowing.

“I hate this,” he growled.

“Duly noted,” Aramis’ voice shook. “I—If it makes you feel any better, I am not overly fond of this either.” He looked at Porthos with fever bright eyes. “Remember, a quick touch to the wound will suffice, that at least should be a comfort to you.”

Porthos brow furrowed and he shook his head. “It ain’t. But I’ll do what needs doing.”

“Yes, I’m—,” Aramis grimaced and shifted, unable to keep still, “I’m sure of it.” Lifting one trembling hand weakly, he pointed at the area where the contents from his kit lay strewn upon the floor of the cave. “There is a copper container amongst my things. You’ll need that, for after.”

Porthos was only too glad to move away from the cursed dagger, eager to put distance between himself and what he was about to do, for as long as he could avoid it. All too soon he found the brownish container and brought it over to where he’d stacked the bandages.

Porthos unscrewed the lid and sniffed hesitantly at the contents and drew back pleasantly surprised. “That actually smells good.”

“It’s lavender oil. Mixed with a few other items, along with some of the leftover cooked oats Serge saves aside for me.” Aramis brow scrunched in thought, or pain. Or both. “It… it soothes the burn.”

Clearly he was having trouble keeping focus, so Porthos pressed on. “What do I do with it?”

“Apply it liberally to the burned flesh—”

“Won’t that hurt?”

“Naturally, but—” Aramis swallowed. “But if we’re fortunate I’ll be unconscious by then. If not, well, after the cautery, distinguishing one pain from another will be im—impossible.”

Nodding, Porthos exhaled and though he loathed to ask, he knew he had to. “Anything else?”

Aramis’ face pinched as he mulled over the question. “How-how much of the tincture remains?”

Porthos shook his head. He ignored his own misgivings and looked over the edge of the pot to peer inside. “A bit, pro’lly enough for two or three more cups.”

“Good,” he said huskily, staring at his friend with watery eyes. “After the cautery, rinse the burned flesh— a cup should do— then apply the salve and b—bandage.”

“Okay but um…” Porthos hesitated a moment. “Sure you wanna be awake for this?” Aramis’ brow furrowed in confusion. “I could, you know, punch you, knock you out cold.”

Aramis found it within himself to allow a small, if pained smile. “Much as I ap-appreciate the offer,” he replied a note of fondness in his voice “We both know you find me too pretty to hit h-hard enough… it would never work, m’friend.”

Porthos knew Aramis was right and would have appreciated it more if he weren’t already in knots at what he was about to do. He looked at the blade then back at Aramis, doing his best to keep his rolling stomach under control.

“You wanna…?” he indicated with a dip of his head to where the sleeve of his leather doublet lay sprawled against the dirt floor where Aramis had deposited it.

The marksman reached back to reclaim the leather, his hands shaking, movement sluggish. Porthos shot out a hand to help, noticing for the first time the deep indentations from where Aramis’ teeth dug into the leather earlier. In some places, he’d bitten hard enough to go through the fabric.

Wordlessly, Aramis took it from him and began to meticulously fold one end over the other, wadding it thicker than before. Thick enough to staunch the cries of a man whose world was about to catch fire. Placing the doubled leather in his mouth, he settled and gave a jerky nod for Porthos to proceed.

Porthos took the dagger from the flames, mesmerized momentarily by the glowing red steel. He dared a quick glance at Aramis who met his gaze with one of steely determination and Porthos’ gut clenched.

Aramis growled, the sound muffled but enough to draw Porthos’ attention. The marksman’s eyes snapped defiantly, urging him to greater haste. No reluctance. No fear. No hesitation.

Porthos swallowed, knowing he could give no less.

Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself not to rush. He had to do this right the first time or risk repeating it later, and that he could simply not do. He would not fail Aramis in this. Steeling himself, Porthos lowered the blade.

The moist wound sizzled and smoldered against the unrelenting press of heated steel. Smoke wafted upward, the scent of scorched flesh filling his senses, twisting his stomach. But he did not withdraw.

Beneath it all, Aramis’ body snapped and drew taut, his back arching upward. His cries muffled by the leather, cut short by the unrelenting pain. In a moment of mercy, they died just as quickly and he dropped unconscious to the bedding.

It was over in a moment but felt like an age. The world dipped and spun, the smell of scalded flesh overpowering him. Porthos dropped the blade into the dirt, gained his feet and staggered out of the cave. He then promptly dropped to his knees and lost the contents of his stomach.

When his heaves abated and his stomach settled, Porthos sat back on his heels and wiped a hand across his mouth. Eager to return to his friend, he staggered again to his feet and moved back inside. At the cave’s entrance, the sight of the marksman brought him up short.

Aramis was no longer trembling. In fact, he was completely still. Deathly still.

“The hell,” Porthos murmured. Running to the marksman’s side, he dropped to his knees. “Aramis?”

Up close, he noted the absence of that fevered shake was not the only change. Gone was the subtle sweat dotting the flesh. Instead it was as if Aramis’ had been submerged in a river of slick, gleaming water. Porthos lay a hand on his brow and scowled. No heat but bitter cold flesh beneath, the feel of it like… sodden leather. Like rot and death.

“Dammit,” Porthos growled and jumped to his feet. He’d no idea what had brought this on but it could not be good. The only people who should look and feel like the dead, were the dead.

Bitter panic covered the scent of burning flesh that still hung heavily in the air and he ran over to grab his cape from the other side of the cave, adding it to the one already in place. Given the heat of fever earlier, he’d thought it less essential at the time.

Noting the depleted pile of wood near the fire, he moved the pots aside and added the remaining fuel, the blaze leaping higher and hotter to increase the heat in the damp cavern.

On his feet, Porthos ran outside and gathered more wood, grateful for its abundance, and returned to pile the dead branches nearby. Once he was satisfied with the size of the flame and the heat it put out, he sat back but did not take his eyes off his friend. Laying a hand on Aramis’ chest, he noted his breathing was no longer labored but shallow and faint.

“No. No. No,” he repeated. Refusing to give in to the overwhelming feeling of helplessness, Porthos began fussing with the covers once more, stopping when he noticed the doublet cushioning the marksman’s head had dislodged completely leaving him flat on his back.

Porthos crawled over, picked up the doublet and began wrapping it into a ball. He was about to replace it when he stopped and stared at his friend.

They’d been through much together. He loved all his brothers, but Aramis… he’d been first to welcome him openly when others had held back, despite the color of his skin. He’d been the friend the bigger man had needed then and ever since; the brother he’d never had.

Fear of losing his brother pierced his heart and Porthos, in a tender moment he’d deny ever occurred if— when – Aramis awoke, he set the garment aside, sat down and scooted close the bedding. Lifting the marksman’s upper body carefully, he shuffled around until he was behind him, his own back against the cave wall. Then ever so carefully, mindful of his wounds, he pulled Aramis back to lean against his chest and held him close.

“Wish you could tell me what to do now,” he murmured to the unresponsive marksman, pulling him in closer. “You know I have another birthday coming soon and I mean t’ see you at it so don’t you leave me just yet.”

Lowering his head, he reigned in his thoughts, memories of all the birthday’s before. “I mean, you’re the one who helped me come up with a date, insisted on it. Some shit about celebrating life when I thought the whole idea was silly. Wouldn’t be the same if you weren’t there to give me a target to shoot at.”

Porthos chuckled. “I remember that first time when I shot that melon off your head. You said I was a terrible shot if the stakes weren’t high enough. Didn't’ know what you meant at the time ‘til you marched across the yard, grabbed a melon of Serge’s table and set it on your head. I suspected before, but after…” he shook his head, “after, I was sure you were barking mad.”

Swallowing, he stared into the fire. “You told me before,” he choked, shifting his hand to lay it over Aramis’ heart, willing it to keep beating, needing the contact.  “You told me when I thought this birthday thing was foolish, you said, ‘we fight for life now, why not celebrate it?’ Well, dammit.” He rubbed one hand at his eyes. “You’d better damn well fight for yours, hear me?”

Porthos wasn’t sure how long he sat there talking, but at some point he realized he was carding his other hand through Aramis’ hair. He didn’t once consider stopping or consider if his friend would mind. He was quite certain it was for his own benefit and he was too tired to care.

Tired was not quite the word. He was worn to his core. When his back hit the cave wall, he leaned heavily into it, exhausted, head tipped back, thinking to close his eyes only for a moment, unaware that the marksman’s body had stilled.

Unaware because seconds after his eyes slipped shut, his words trailed off and soon, blessed slumber claimed him.

 

Tbc…


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Athos sat back on his horse, watched and waited. Again.

Almost a league back, Sébastien had jumped from his horse, quite without warning, and began walking in a small circle before moving off in a singular direction. Still on foot. He never told the Musketeer to follow, but Athos knew at once when to do so and when to hang back. It had become a sort of unspoken process between them.

With the boy in the lead, the pair of them moving at a swift pace, Athos had just begun to think they'd return to their faster canter when Sébastien came to a sudden stop. A moment later he was moving again but not in any direction; he was moving in circles. A sure indicator he'd found a mess that needed sorting. Head bent, eyes glued to the ground, mouth muttering unintelligible words as he seemed to work through the sign he'd found.

The Musketeer could feel himself grow weary of the constant stop and start pace they'd kept to. The boy had insisted, and rightly so. If they moved at too quick a pace, they risked missing some signs, then they'd only end losing their trail and have to backtrack, wasting even more time.

Now however, Sébastien seemed at odds with himself. Standing straight, head still tilted down and fixed on the ground, Athos had watched him long enough to know the signs; the boy had a tell when he seemed unsure about something. He put one hand in his mouth and began chewing on his fingers.

There was a difference. This time the uncertainty seemed to linger far longer than any other time.

"Sébastien?" Athos finally called. The boy seemed not to hear.

Not wanting to disturb the ground for sign, Athos slid from his horse and walked over to the boy. "Something the matter?"

"Too many," Sébastien murmured, shaking his head. He turned and moved slowly away, head turning this way and that. "I can't...," he scratched his head. "I'm having trouble finding your friend's horse and his notched hoof."

Athos felt dread squeeze his heart like a vice. He knelt and let his eyes rove the ground. The boy wasn't wrong. There were lots of hoof prints, and boot prints as well. Thank god for soft soil, though it meant being eternally careful at mixing their prints with those of the ones they sought.

"Allow me to assist," Athos offered. Sébastien looked at him inquisitively. "I've seen what to look for, the notched hoof. We'll spread out on foot, see what we can find. With both of us looking, perhaps we can better sort this out."

Sébastien hesitated a moment then finally nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Okay, but leave the horse here,” he instructed then glanced around him. "You take that side, I'll take this one," he pointed. "We start circling out then call when you find something. Remember, move slowly."

Athos nodded, trying to decipher if he'd just been insulted and suddenly wondering when he'd started taking orders from an eleven-year-old boy.

They began moving about the chewed up earth, each of them stepping carefully so as not to mar the visible tracks too much. The horse remained content to nibble on grass beneath a shade tree some distance away as they continued to circle out, moving further and further apart, Athos due East, Sébastien, West. It was still a mass of jumbled prints, bent and broken grass, unsettled rocks that had at one point been buried at another angle, and twigs, obviously batted down from trees overhead when a rider passed beneath.

"Here!"

Athos spun, hand pulling his pistol in one smooth move. Sébastien was nowhere in sight.

"Over here!" a very frantic Sébastien shouted. "Hurry!"

Athos was running before the last word cut the air. Shoulders tense, feet churning, heedless of any trail he'd mar in his haste to find the boy. He broke through a clutch of trees and stopped, eyes scanning, hoping to find a glimpse of the boy. "Sébastien!"

As if on cue, the boy broke some thick brush and Athos came within an inch of leveling his weapon when he realized who it was. Sébastien was panting but he was smiling as well. "I think I know where they went." He dashed past Athos and broke into a run. The opposite direction.

"But..." Athos looked at the way the boy had come and at his rapidly retreating back and at the tracks he’d seen. "Why then are we going back?" Realizing the boy would not stop to comment, he gave chase.

“Because it’s another five leagues away and,” he shrugged one thin shoulder, “I reckon your horse is faster.”

Athos wasn't exactly fast but having the benefit of longer legs, he was catching up with the boy. "What is a good five leagues away?"

Geroux paced the camp. Their horses were tired and he’d called a brief camp to give them a rest. He glanced up to the sky to gauge the time; past lunch and they were no closer to finding the damn Musketeers than they had been before. He cursed under his breath.

He was not overly fond of telling the Marquis he’d failed. Failed to find the King’s soldiers and let two other slip through his hands earlier, duping him into believing they were mere artisans for the nobility. Certainly killing one of them would count for something but not by much. Now, there were the two from town and another, and if a single one made it back to Paris...

One of his men offered him refreshment and he glared until he shrunk back and returned to where his other friends sat, nibbling on bread and cheese, draining their wine skins.

Geroux stopped. His eyes scanned his men, turning in a circle to catch sight of each and every one of them. The sudden realization that something was off took hold of him. His mind moved back to before they’d called a rest, hours before. Their troop had moved through the woods in groups, their numbers too large to keep together. Now, however, there was a sense of space and feeling of less crowding. Their band had unmistakably thinned.

“Where are Hubert and Pascal? And the cousins?” He scoured the group and all eyes cast down, seemingly unwilling to meet his. “Benoit,” he grabbed the nearest man and forced his gaze up. “Where,” he spat, twisting the man’s collar until he could barely breath, “are they?”

Benoit’s mouth opened and closed as he gasped for air, eyes bugging. Geroux eased his grasp until the man inhaled anxiously. “They uh… left.”

“They uh… _left_?” Geroux mocked. There was a moment's hesitation before he began violently throttling the man. “What do you mean they left?” he shouted, shaking him harder with each word. Before he could pass out, Geroux shoved the man, watching as he stumbled back, clutching his throat.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he growled and began a slow glaring circle, pinning each man with promise of his wrath.

All eyes looked anywhere but to their leader. Some looked nervously away, clearly paralyzed by fear, others looked angry, controlled, less frightened but more annoyed, unwilling to speak where they felt it wasn’t their job to do so.  

“I rode out with over twenty-five men and now I’ve only less than twenty, so I will repeat this only one more time. What the hell is going on here?” he asked, voice level and lethal. Pulling his pistol, he pointed at his intended and drew the hammer back. “Answer me now.”

Eyes wide, the man cleared his throat. “They went back home… s-said they don’t wanna tangle with no Musketeers.”

Geroux eased the hammer down and lowered his weapon. Cursing himself for not putting musket ball in Hubert’s head when he’d first thought to. He’d not only left but he’d convinced some of the others to go with him

Face nearly as red as his hair, Geroux glared at each man. “And what do all of you say? Hmm?” It was quiet, save for the crunch of his feet on the ground as he walked amongst his men. “Any of you have a problem dealing with the Musketeers?”

“We’re here, ain’t we?” Gaspard stepped forward, though clearly uneasy with the conversation and the confrontation. “I ain’t afraid of anyone but lot of us didn’t sign up to tangle with the King and his personal guard.”

“Yeah,” another piped in, emboldened by his comrade's comments. “You know us, Geroux. We done plenty over the months we worked for the Marquis. But we’re going to want more compensation for dealing with Musketeers.”

“They’re only men,” Geroux practically shouted.

“They’re _Musketeers_ ,” Benoit added steadily. “Hand-picked by their commander for their skill.”

“I hear they fight like demons.”

“Bunch of idiots,” Geroux growled, shaking his head. “You will be compensated!” he shouted silencing them. “I’ll see to it personally. But the only way we come out of this unscathed is if we kill those Musketeers before they can get back to Paris. Don’t you see that?”

There was a grumbling of agreement amongst the men. “Money don’t mean much,” a small voice muttered nearby, “when you’re too dead to spend it...”

Geroux spun, his pistol out and aimed at the man who’d spoken. “You’re right.” He pulled the trigger. The blast of the pistol startled man and beast alike. The most unfortunate of both, fell dead, half his face missing for a shot at such close range. The dead man’s horse bolted and fled.

The camp was utterly silent, save for the dancing hooves of unsettled horses.

Geroux let that sink in, to get their attention. To see who would challenge his actions. None was forthcoming.

“Know this,” he glared at his men. “I will kill any man who tries to leave. After those Musketeers are dead, I will hunt down and kill anyone who runs like a coward.”

Gaspard seemed the only one brave enough to speak next. “And the money?”

It was a good thing Geroux respected the man or he’d have killed him next. “I will see to it that each of you gets twenty livre if we kill those Musketeers. And an additional twenty if you catch and kill any man who even thinks about running. That,” he continued, watching is the promise of coin changed their perspectives, “should suffice, should it not?”

Their eyes shifted around the group, some he knew nervously weighing the option of leaving despite the bounty he’d put upon their heads, others hoping to be recipient of said bounty even if it meant turning on another. They weren’t friends. They were rabble looking for coin. And Geroux knew that if they were going to take down even two Musketeers with this lot, he’d better keep them together, by any means.

The sound of fast moving heavy pounding hoof beats sounded and to a man, they turned toward the noise, weapons filling their hands, waiting response. Geroux moved through to take the lead but stepped to one side, waving to the others to seek cover.

The lone rider broke cover and entered the circle before pulling vigorously on the reins and drawing the horse to a halt. Geroux knew him immediately as one of the men who’d ridden off with the Marquis. He stepped out and grabbed the animal's bridle, steadying him.

“We found sign of their trail,” Bertrand said breathlessly. “The Marquis sent me to fetch you.”

Geroux grinned a terrible, ugly grin. “Mount up!”

Antoine pulled his horse to a stop and squinted at the unnatural heap up ahead. Given the return of one of the two horses he’d loaned the Musketeers some hours back, the absence of its rider and presence of blood on the saddle, shouted caution at any approach.

But the Musketeer horse next to him seemed to have other ideas. Ears pricked, it stared ahead, nickered softly and shifted in an agitated dance, pulling at the lead rope in his hand, more than willing to advance without him.

“Easy girl,” the farmer tugged her back when she got to the end of the tether. She returned obediently but turned to stare intently at the lump. Antoine reached over and patted the animal on the neck. “Don’t wanna run into something we’re not sure of, yeah? Thought even a Musketeer horse would be leery of danger.”

But the horse seemed to very sure of what she wanted. She tossed her head, fighting the rope for control, ready to charge forward with or without consent of her handler. Antoine cursed under his breath. If he’d known Musketeer horses were this obstinate he’d have taken his plow horse and damn the fact that it would have taken twice as long to reach Paris.

Reining his horse to one side, he used the delay to draw his pistol, then released the Musketeer’s mount and let the animal lead. And she took it willingly; she lurched forward and raced toward their target.

Drawing closer, it was easy to see what had made the animal so eager. The younger of the two Musketeers Antoine had met earlier that day, lay sprawled on the ground, blood covering one side of his face, dark red painting that which wasn’t covered in dirt and brush.

Antoine dismounted and rushed to the young man’s side and placed a hand on his neck. The touch was met with a moan, and the farmer stood and moved back to the horse for his water skin. This wasn’t the route the Musketeers had taken in their journey to the village. What on earth was this one doing here and where was the other?

Kneeling next to the young man, he pulled off his kerchief and poured some water on the cloth, then ran it over the boy’s face. The musketeer moaned louder, turning his head before grimacing in pain.

“Yeah, best you not move your head for a bit.”  Antoine noticed the dark furrow on the boy’s skull and pressed the wet cloth to the wound. “What the hell happened to you…?” he searched for the boy’s name in his mind. “D'Artagnan, right?”

The Musketeer raised a hand and caught Antoine by the wrist, his eyes slowly opened and he gazed up at the farmer. “I have—” he swallowed hard and struggled to rise. “Have to get to Paris.” He just made it to a sitting position when he tilted heavily to his left.

Antoine dropped the wet cloth and caught the young man before he could fall completely over. “Hey now,” he chuckled. “Wha’d I tell you ‘bout not moving your head for a bit?” He offered d’Artagnan his water skin. “What happened?

The young Musketeer made no move to take the proffered container and instead sat, squinting at the farmer, clearly confused. “I— you… What are you doing here?”

“I’d ask you the same question.” He shrugged at the boy's reluctance and took a drink himself. “You’re a long way from Chaîne des Puys.” When the younger man remained quiet, Antoine looked at him and realized what he’d mistook for addled confusion was actually suspicion. “That horse I loaned you came back home with no rider and no small amount of blood on the saddle. Thought I’d take a look.”

“And you found me,” D’Artagnan continued, wary of the farmer. “...that easily?”

“Easily, no,” he corrected. “There’s a fair amount of men running about the place. I was a league from the main road to Paris when Geroux and his men came scuttling out of the trees an’ shot off in an easterly direction. On a hunch, I backtracked and well, here I am. Now,” he held out the skin, “will you take a drink and stop staring at me like I’m Lucifer himself?”

D’Artagnan relaxed took the water skin. “Sorry… can’t be too careful.” He lifted the container and drank greedily.

“Yeah, I get it. Just,” he watched the boy swallow, water leaking out the sides of his mouth to run down his shirt, “go easy or your head’ll remind your stomach it’s been addled. Trust me,” he reached out to tug on the container, “puking won’t make your head feel a lot better.”

The boy lowered the skin and wiped his mouth with the back of one grimy sleeve. “Thank you,” he said allowing Antoine to reclaim water skin. “Didn’t realize how thirsty I was…”

“Loosin’ blood’ll do that to a body.” Antoine picked up the cloth from where he’d dropped it, rinsed off the odd pieces of grass and dirt before handing it back, with a nod to indicate he press it against his bloodied scalp. “I’m afraid to ask but where’s your friend, ah— Athos?”

“Aft—” D’Artagnan winced as he put the cloth to the wound. “After we left your farm, Athos decided we should split up. Too many men for just the two of us so he sent me back to get reinforcements.”

“Smart,” Antoine nodded. “He went on to the village alone, I take it?”

“Yeah,” the Gascon nodded his thanks then regretted it and placed the wet cloth to his injured temple. “Wanted to see if he could find where Aramis and Porthos went off to. If they were still…”

Antoine nodded, letting the thought trail. He knew well the end of that sentence and hoped to God it was not the end for this young man’s friends. But the Marquis employed brutal men and in his heart, he did not hold out much hope.

“So tell me,” Antoine began, a note of mischief in his tone. “How exactly did you come to falling off my horse? You know,” he grinned, “I half expected you Musketeers knew how to ride, otherwise I’d not have loaned you my horseflesh.”

D’Artagnan squinted up at the farmer, seeing the merriment dancing in his eyes, smiled. “I did indeed run into Geroux and his men. Seems,” he rubbed gingerly at the skin near where the musket ball creased the flesh and winced, “th-they didn’t appreciate our little deception earlier.”

The farmer grimaced. “And yet you still draw breath. You’ll have to tell me how you managed that.”

“I had two options, flee on open ground where they stood a very good chance of overtaking me, or take the narrow trail barely wide enough for one horse, let alone a dozen. So…,” he shrugged, “I made a break for it.”

Antoine’s brow furrowed and he twisted to look at the patch of ground the boy referred to as a _trail_. “What… that?” He turned back to stare at the boy in awe. “Boy, that ain’t no trail. That’s a spit of earth hanging out over the edge of nothin’.”

“Exactly the conclusion I had hoped Geroux and his men would come to.”

“They did! That’s why they _shot_ you!”

“Grazed,” d’Artagnan corrected and squinted curiously at the farmer. “And that was just a lucky shot. The odds were in my favor.”

Antoine shook his head. He knew well how deep down that ravine sank. He looked back at the Gascon in awe. “You’re mad. Positively mad. Tell me, are all Musketeers that insane?”

“Well, two of my friends just took on a Marquis with forty men. You tell me.”

“So that’s a yes, then.” Antoine chuckled and handed d'Artagnan the water skin. “Still gotta tell me how you survived that fall.”

D’Artagnan finished and handed the container back. “Next thing I know, I’m waking up on a ledge some ways down. Used the roots to climb out.”

The farmer stares at him in amazement. “Just like that?” to which the boy shrugs and nods, albeit carefully. Antoine shook his head. “Well, good thing your luck was better than Geroux’s shooting skills.”

D’Artagnan’s unfocused gaze caught sight of something over the farmer’s shoulder. “Either I’m seeing things or there are two horses there and one of them is...”

“Yours,” he confirmed. “You and your friend had my only good saddle horses, so when Bruno showed up and I figured I’d bring yours along. Reckoned I’d either find your body and your horse would carry it back to Paris, or I might have some luck of my own.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “I’m indebted to you, monsieur. Now, if you’ll excuse me I—,” he grunted and made to rise, only to waver dangerously, his face pale beneath the blood and grime. The farmer shot a hand out to steady him. “I must get back to Paris.”

“There is no way you’ll stay in the saddle in your condition.” But d’Artagnan only released Antoine’s arm and stumbled his way to his horse before clutching to the saddle, clinging to the pommel to remain upright.

“Stubborn,” Antoine huffed and walked over to the boy. “I see now where the horse gets it.”

“I’ve no choice,” he replied, words muffled in the leather of his gear. “I’m to bring back help. My friends need me.”

Antoine’s mouth drew into a fine, tight line. “Fine,” he grumbled and stalked over to his horse. He grabbed the animal’s rein and moved it closer to the Musketeer’s mount. “I was headed to Paris anyway, might as well continue the trip.”

“But your family—”

“Are safely away from our farm and don’t expect me back for a day or two.” He walked around and stood next to the Musketeer, clearly waiting for him to mount. “Well,” he motioned to the younger man. “Somebody’s got to pick your’ stubborn ass off the ground when you fall. Might as well be me.”

Smiling, the Gascon grabbed the pommel and hauled himself into the saddle, while Antoine hovered near by. When he was sure he would remain seated, d’Artagnan nodded to the farmer. “Well then, what are we waiting for?” 

“Shit!”

Porthos shot upright and blinked owlishly. Confusion clouded his thoughts. He’d no idea where he was. Nothing appeared familiar. Nothing was as it should be. One moment there had been the tavern, a game of cards. Drinks. Aramis and some girl—

“Aramis…” he whispered, glancing down sharply.

Aramis lay flat on the pallet, his head resting near Porthos’ leg, forehead tucked into the side of the bigger man’s hip.

Porthos scrubbed a hand down his face; he’d no idea how long he slept or any memory of having moved the smaller man or when, but he was very still. Far too still.

The big Musketeer swallowed against the knot of fear threatening to seize his heart then slid down, careful not to jostle his friend, eager to hear him breath but instead, moved a cautious hand beneath the marksman’s chin, until it rest on his neck.

A slow steady beat thrummed against his fingers. Porthos released a breath he had not known he he’d been holding and sagged with relief, folding in on himself until his forehead rest against the mass of dark, unruly curls covering Aramis’ head.

“Thank you…” he murmured over and over again, not truly certain who he was thanking. Aramis for living, the God he prayed to for not taking him, the cave for giving them shelter, the flowers for healing him… it didn’t matter. He’d thank them all just to be certain that he offended no one for this precious gift.

Porthos eased back and slid his hand up along the marksman’s forehead and noticed two things immediately.  Gone was the intense heat of fever; he was warm yes, but the worst of it seemed to have abated. Mostly the big musketeer noticed the feel of his skin beneath his fingers. The touch of his flesh no longer felt dank and sticky as it had moments after the cautery. The feeling of death closing in and sinking in its claws

No. It was dry. Normal. And the beat of his heart, the way he lay… it was life in repose. A normal sleep.

Healing sleep.

“Good,” Porthos nodded, patting Aramis gently on his shoulder before pushing back and climbing to his feet. He looked at their cook fire, noting it had burned down to mere embers. “You just keep sleeping. Keep getting better,” he murmured because Aramis would need all the rest he could get before they pushed on once again.

They all did, to be honest. And that sleep, while he’d not intended it, he knew he’d needed it desperately. Their horses too.

Now, they needed food but before he could consider making such plans, he needed to venture out, check their surroundings. Make certain they were still safe.

Porthos squatted down next to the marksman. “Gotta take a look around,” he continued to his slumbering friend. He tugged the layered cloaks up from where they’d slipped down and tucked them beneath his friend’s chin. “If things look good, I’ll gather more wood, get us a fire going. See about finding—”

A soft nickering sound stopped Porthos cold. He spun slowly and felt his skin prickle in alarm. Their horses were no longer resting at the back of the cave. Instead, they were turned, heads high, ears perked and staring with wide curious eyes out the cave entrance.

It could be anything. He knew that, but, as all soldiers who’d come to rely on instinct in battle, Porthos knew better than to dismiss the fine senses of their horses. So he moved cautiously toward the animals and placed a gentle hand over each of their muzzles to calm them quickly. Then, before he could investigate, he led the animals to the back of the cave where he hobbled them to keep them still and quiet.

Porthos then turned to make his way back to the entrance. Crouching deeper and deeper, he inched up to the opening and held absolutely still. It took little time to find the object of their mounts attention.

Below, on the very trail he and Aramis had ridden only hours before, a man moved slowly on his mount, stopping the animal every now and then to gaze at the ground, to study it. Not for a moment did Porthos entertain the notion that this could be a simple hunter, on the look for game; he’d long ago stopped believing in coincidences.

No. The there was no mistaking the interloper’s movement. He was a tracker. And the only ‘game’ this man was after were Musketeers.

A satisfied rage boiled within the big Musketeer’s heart. He’d finally be able to take the fight to them, even if it was only one man, Porthos would relish in it; he’d give this man a taste of the hell he and his employer had visited upon them.

More importantly, he’d silence any chance of him returning to his master with word of their location.

Mouth in a grim line, Porthos turned and looked back to where Aramis slept. While the time for leaving was close at hand — too close — this man’s death and unfulfilled mission would buy them some time, at least, and perhaps some much needed distance.

With purpose and intent, he moved over to their gear, a singularly terrible, animalistic grin spreading across his face when he found what he wanted. His parrying dagger. He tucked the blade into the scabbard at his back and moved quietly to the mouth of the cave and crouched. Watching. His prey moved unwittingly below, still unaware he was being stalked.

The easing day had given way to long shadows that, coupled with Porthos’ decision to leave much of the brush covering the entrance, kept him well hidden as he made his way from the cave and out into the deeper shade of the trees. Since the rider moved slowly on the trail below, Porthos decided to follow along the top of the hill, get in behind him and take him by surprise. It wasn’t exactly chivalrous or honorable but he was done playing by any conventional rules.

Getting alongside his intended target, however, proved more difficult than first thought. The trees were thick in places and instead of an easy flanking position, Porthos found it necessary to dodge in and out of the foliage, spot his prey, only to move back when terrain dictated and only hope he’d still be there at the next break. After one such detour he got back within sight and swore under his breath.

The tracker was nowhere to be found.

Battle was a fine teacher of patience and so he held position and waited, wondering where he might have gone to… perhaps he’d lost their tracks and turned back. It was possible. Porthos had been thorough in the use of brush to wipe most of their tracks clean when they’d first arrived. He didn’t think he’d missed much.

It seemed to take longer than it ought so Porthos placed a hand on a thick grassy tuft and slowly leaned out, hoping to catch sight of his quarry.  Weight shifted too far forward, the ground crumbled some beneath his bracing hand and sent dirt and debris tumbling to the path below. Cursing under his breath he drew back, then faded further into the shadows and stilled, careful not the leave branches waving in his wake.

Sweat trickled down the larger Musketeer’s back and forehead but he didn’t dare move. The sound of a musket slipping from its scabbard told him all he needed to know; he’d been heard and suspicion aroused. He looked to his left and seeing a way through the brush, moved with a quiet that belied his size.

Then through a slim break of trees, he finally saw his mark. He stood stock still, rifle in hand, squinting into the trees. Searching.

So Porthos waited him out. He would not lose this chance.  

After what felt like an eternity, the tracker moved back to his horse. As he turned to mount, Porthos tensed, ready to press his advantage. Using the sound his quarry made to mask his own, the Musketeer moved soundlessly from the shadows to perch on the edge. Dropping to a crouch, legs loaded, he watched and waited for just the right moment.

Just as his prey settled into the saddle, Porthos launched.

The Musketeer landed perfectly atop the animal's back and just behind the rider, the impact enough to send the man lurching forward, off balance. Porthos went to pull his blade but the animal’s reaction, while predictably bad, became progressively worse.

The horse gave a terrified whinny and reared. Porthos wrapped his arms around the tracker, the hold enough to knock the man’s musket to the ground seconds before the pair of them tumbled off the back together.

Momentum sent them rolling. They traded places on the uneven ground several time, rolling, grunting against the sharp rocks and dirt before Porthos brought them to a halt, pinning the smaller man beneath him.

Before the Musketeer could get his blade the tracker began fighting back. He punched and jabbed at Porthos, the blows nothing compared to the dark skinned man’s determination. But his opponent squirmed mightily, hands flailing, looking for some advantage before coming to the same determination the Musketeer had; there was none. And stilled.

After thinking him subdued, Porthos grabbed his opponent by his collar and jerked him upright. “Why!” he shouted, inches from the tracker’s face.

The other man notched his chin obstinately. “Because your head is worth ten livre to the Marquis.”

Porthos sneered at him. “Well, sadly for you, I got no need of prisoners,” he growled, and dropped the man back to lay on the dirt.

A grim smile on his face, Porthos reached back to pull the blade from its scabbard ready to put an end to this. Eager to get back to Aramis. Get—  he froze.  His eyes caught the tracker’s.

Porthos’ stilled. A second pair of fingers were wrapped around the hilt of his dagger. His opponent lay there, jeering back at him.

“A valley.” Sébastien said quietly, gazing down.

Athos moved carefully to the edge and stopped. Whether it was his disdain for heights or the blunt evidence of the soil shifting precariously beneath his feet, he went no closer and in fact, had to will himself to remain as close as he was. Close enough that he could see the steep drop down into the valley below. The sight of it had a dizzying effect and sent his heart tumbling. Not so inclined to such fears, Sébastien stood a few feet to his right, toes all but dangling over the side.

“And you think they went down there?” the former compt asked, keeping the unease he felt inside, from reflecting in his words.

“I _know_ so.” Sébastien pointed down the side. “Look, you can see where all the shrubs and trees are disturbed. Your men went down there. See?” He reached out to tap Athos’ shoulder and the musketeer reared back, as if the slightest touch would send him over. “The dirt is dug down,” the boy continued, seemingly unaware of Athos’ disdain, “like the horses sat back on their hind legs to keep from tumbling down. Even that place you’re standing is more broken than it ought.”

Athos took an unconscious step back, a healthy fear of loose soil and neck-breaking distances guiding his actions.

The boy paced away from the edge, the sight of which should have given Athos comfort but in fact, revealed most discomfiting results.

“And over here,” Sébastien knelt. “There’s blood. And this,” he dug in his pocket and pulled out a wadded cloth and held it out. “Probably from your wounded man.”

Athos stepped back, quickly as if the ground were burning his feet and approached to take the cloth from his hand. “Where did you find this?” he examined it thoughtfully.

“Just over there, not three feet from the edge of the ground leading into the valley.”

“Could they have made it to the bottom unscathed?”

The boy thought a moment. “Trickier with horses but it can be done, if a man is patient and the horse sure footed.”

“And if the man were injured?”

Sébastien caught Athos gaze and held it. “Maybe…” He suddenly turned back and walked unafraid right to the edge and leaned out to peer down. “If he’s a skilled rider, he might.”

Athos’ breath caught in his throat and he reached out as if the pull him back but dared not get close enough to actually touch him. “Careful.” The boy pulled back and looked curiously at Athos. “Aramis is a very skilled rider, better then all of us combined.”

The boy nodded. “If they didn’t make it, I’d see their bodies.” He looked back over the edge and shook his head. “There’s nothing. I think they made it.”

Athos exhaled. That at least was a comfort. “Well then,” he began grimly, willing to do whatever he could for his friends, his brothers, “I suppose we shall follow.”  He placed his hat on his head and noticed the boy smiling at him. “What? The prospect of going down the side of a nearly vertical wall does not frighten you?”

“It would… if I didn’t know of another way down. One far safer and much faster.”

Inside he was elated and relieved, outside he was his usual dower self, considering all their possible options and problems. “Would the Marquis or his men know of the same path?”

Sébastien frowned, nibbling thoughtfully on one corner of his lower lip. “Their last tracks headed due south and the trail is more southeasterly. I suppose if the valley is any consideration at all, he’ll send scouts at least.”

“And they might find the trail,” Athos finished while turning to stride quickly to where he left his horse. “Come,” he launched himself into the saddle and held out a hand. “We’ve not a moment to lose.”

Porthos’ eyes widened.

The tracker snarled and jerked the blade free, moved the dagger to the side, ready to drive it into the Musketeer’s neck.

Porthos lunged toward the weapon and wrapped both hands around the man’s wrist, his greater strength stopping him in mid thrust. But the movement shifted their weight and sent them rolling once again, locked together in combat, hands over head, all fighting for control as they tumbled over the rocky surface, Porthos’ hands locked around the other man’s wrist.

The ground finally evened out and their momentum slowed until they were facing one another, on their sides. Grunting in exertion, they panted, hands over head, struggling for dominance.

Porthos scrambled to get up and pin his pray once more while at the same time keeping hold of the hand that held his dagger. But his greater weight and larger center of gravity left him at a disadvantage. The smaller, more agile opponent was nearly on top of him. There was no help for it, Porthos had to release one hand from the tracker’s in order to push himself up, to shift his weight over his opponent.

It was a moment of vulnerability that the tracker seized on immediately.

Lacking size but making up for it in cunning and wiry strength, the tracker quickly brought both hands to bear against the hilt of the blade, lending more strength and control to the one weapon between them. Desperate to change the momentum against a formidable opponent.

And it worked.

The blade turned and drove towards its intended target; the Musketeer’s neck.

Porthos felt it coming but it was not fear for his own life that he felt. It was not his own bloodied corpse that he saw. He saw only one thing. Aramis. His friend. His brother, for more years than he could count.

Alone.

Wounded.

Weak. Facing their opponents, one against so many. Broken. Bloody. Dead.

Failure would mean the end of them both, and while Porthos could embrace the prospect of giving his own life for his friend, he could not live with the knowledge of having failed him.

It was that knowledge that drove him. That renewed his strength. With a speed born of determination he pushed off with his free hand, straddled the tracker, set his knees for balance and doubled his grip around the hilt, adding his strength and countering his opponent’s thrust.

It worked. He drove the knife back, away from where it had hovered a hairs breath from his neck.

This time the tracker’s eyes widened. He whimpered more from desperation at the shift of momentum than from Porthos’ crushing grip on his wrists. Still, he was far from done and realizing the Musketeer was up and balanced on his knees, lifted his leg and drove his knee into Porthos’ side.

The impact elicited no more than a grunt from Porthos; instead it worked only to solidify his focus. Using his considerable strength and determination, he twisted the blade away from himself, the tip making uninterrupted progress and closing the distance steadily toward the tracker’s torso. All but securing his death when the tracker’s countenance changed.

The man’s gaze settled as he sneered up at the Musketeer. “You’re going to die,” the snarled, teeth gritted in a sort of strained smile.

The man’s audacity astounded him and Porthos’ brow furrowed. He stilled the blade, inches from his opponent’s chest. “For one about to meet his maker, you’re awfully cocky…” he ground out.

“The Marquis and his men—”

The man pushed back against the blade and Porthos decided he'd had enough of this. “Will be next,” he finished, dropping all his weight like an anvil to drive the blade easily into the tracker’s chest.

The Marquis’ man gasped, blood bubbling from his lips until it spilled out the side of his mouth.

Porthos leaned into the blade, this close he could hear his chest cavity fill with blood. “They just don’t know it yet,” he panted and gave the main gauche a twist, taking satisfaction in his prey’s gasp of pain. “I’ll make sure to clear that up.”

When the man breathed his last, Porthos sat up slowly, leaned back on his heels, and exhaled loudly as he dropped his head back to stare at the sky. Hands to his side, he let the energy and rush of battle drain from his limbs, easing his racing heart as sweat poured down his face. He ran the back of his wrist over his brow and after a moment, looked dispassionately at the tracker, his sightless eyes staring up at the sky.

One less to worry about when the time came. He could live with that. Aramis too.

Aramis. The cave. He needed to get back.

Porthos wrenched the dagger from the man’s chest, the sound of bone grating where it had lodged between his ribs and rose steadily to his feet. Blood glinted on the blade and before he would return it to its sheath, he knelt next to the dead man, wiping first one side of the dagger against the tracker’s doublet, then turned it to press the other—

A shot rang out. Porthos jerked, inhaling sharply.

 

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: See! D’Artagnan and Aramis are O.K. Aren’t you glad I cleared that up? Great! Right?
> 
> Yes. I’m trying to distract you from what I just did there at the end. Ehm... did it work?


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The climb to consciousness was arduous but Aramis pressed determinedly at the darkness, intent on breaking the surface. He pushed against the waves of weakness that threatened to pull him down, an internal drive urging him onward, demanding he move beyond his best efforts.

Still his eyes remained stubbornly closed, his mind fluttering just beneath the surface, where exhaustion drove his body away from the fine edged pain that seemed to be growing with each breath. Seductive, alluring sleep. Blissful oblivion.

Aramis denied the pull and redoubled his efforts. Driven by his soldier's call to action, the need to survive, to continue, to fight, the very metal of it refined and honed in the forges of battle. Instinct shouted for him to obey, demanded compliance, refused to be ignored…

Strangely enough, instinct sounded a lot like Treville.

He moaned, the sound of it rough and sharp edged in his own ears. Like the struggle to wake, the effort to order his thoughts, to make sense of his predicament and the throbbing pain in his side dangled just out of reach.

Flashes of images nudged at his memory. A harrowing, ill-advised ride down an altogether too steep slope, praying against a single stumble that would surely maim if not kill. Through the myriad of images, only one remained constant.

One face. One name that echoed in his mind with resounding clarity…

"Porthos…?" he gasped and sat up. Regret followed instantly.

The pain was intense, immediate. It drove the air from his lungs. Pushed him back, physically, retreating from it until his back connected with something solid, until he could go no further. He hissed, one hand hovering over his side, the source of all agony but did not touch, some primal sense screaming at him that to do so would be far worse.

So he remained there, his mind struggling to make sense of this. Pinned against the wall, the promise of increased agony keeping him there.

Like any soldier, he was no stranger to the pain of gunshot, bite of sword, the impact of a blow upon flesh, the snap of bone. But this was different. It was like raw nerves, pulsing and exposed. Bared muscle where skin had peeled back. The center of it focused on his side, there the small pinpricks of agony seared against his flesh. Like little needles of fire—

"Fire…" his voice cracked as the memory flooded his senses. "Oh, Dios," he began a soft susurration of prayer as he lifted his hand to cover his eyes.

There in the darkness the heady rush of memory assaulted his mind and senses. The scent of burning flesh-  _his_  flesh- so vivid it sent tiny shivers down his spine. His stomach instantly reviled, threatening to erupt. Aramis brought his hand down to cover his mouth, for to give in to it would be to subject himself to far worse pain.

He managed to take slow breaths, shallow at first until he could deepen them without expansion of air pulling the charred flesh on his side too terribly. Careful determination and patience, drove back the queasiness and in a short time the pain, too, was relegated to a more tolerable level.

When it abated, he dropped his hand slowly, this time careful to restrict movement only to his head as his gaze found the source of that wretched memory. A barely burning fire, little more than a collection of low glowing embers, smoldered, surrounded by a ring of banked stones not far from his feet. In the dim light it emitted, a dagger, the tip blackened and charred, perched on a flat rock close by.

Aramis exhaled, his mouth dry, throat tender. The sound of his own earlier screams echoing in his ears, another memory he'd rather forget. Too warm, he pushed aside the covers where they had tangled in his legs, that small movement alone wreaking havoc on his inflamed side. When he was done, however, he reveled in the coolness of the cave lapping his heated flesh. The blankets, he noted looked suspiciously like a combination of both their capes.

His foggy gaze traveled the room and found confirmation; Porthos was indeed nowhere to be found, a fact that made less and less sense the more clarity returned. If not in the cave, just outside perhaps? But Aramis had not been quiet in his return to consciousness, and if Porthos had been anywhere close he'd have been at his side in an instant. Only death would have—

Aramis cursed vehemently. "Where are you Porthos…?"

The marksman glanced again at the embers and the small pile of wood next to it. There was enough to bank a small flame and that itself would be enough to steep more of his willow tea, drive away this fine edged pain. And water too would parch his aching throat, help him think.

Aramis placed a hand against the wall for support and dragged his left leg in and shifted his weight over to one knee. The pain was instant but he neither cared nor had time for his own frailty. Something was off and he needed to get moving. Needed to find out what it was.

One hand on the wall for support, the other pushing off the ground, he shoved up and onto his feet until he was more or less standing. Leaning mostly against the wall of the cave, fighting against the pain that sought to drive him down once more, he worked to control his breathing in hopes that would help some.

Aramis had just determined his next move when the sound of a horse shrieking in fear or surprise, splintered the quiet.

The marksman's head shot up. It had come from outside.

Driven by a nearly overwhelming sense of urgency he looked anxiously about the cave. "Weapons…where?"

It was dark, not pitch black. Between the deep shadows, crumpled blankets, and various things littered about, he could not discern one from another. "They have to be here somewhere," he murmured and dropped quickly to the ground. He began feeling along the various items strewn about. Porthos would not have left their weapons far.

He crawled, half mad with need to get out there, to investigate. To help in any way possible. Porthos should be here. Aramis should be out there. The alarms in his mind shouted at him to hurry. He patted at the ground near where his head had been—it met with something hard, cylindrical.

Aramis' hand moved side to side over the rounded barrel before gripping what he knew by feel to be one of their muskets. It would be loaded, the marksman assured himself. Porthos would have seen to that. Standing faster than he ought and without support, the dizziness and pain nearly drove him to the ground once more.

The floor tilted precariously and he used the momentum to move forward, the light from the entrance the sole focus of his determined, wooden steps.

At the entrance he grabbed the side of the cave and held, blinking against the bright light, the pain, and nearly overwhelming vertigo that swamped him. The sounds reached him quickly; heavy footfalls, the impact of fists, the exertion. The grunts of men. Fighting.

Aramis blinked the world steady and glanced around to the trail below. There was no one, but he could hear them around the bend.

"I'm coming… I'm coming," he whispered if only to convince himself to not fail his friend. That he would be there to back him up. All for one.

On legs that could barely support him, he stumbled along the path that lead to the cave and overlooked the trail below, every step a battle. He fought to keep the pain abated, his wits about him and his feet moving. A war worth waging for a brother.

The marksman came to where the trees thinned and the sounds increased, and stopped, blinking against his wavering vision. They were there, rolling along the ground, Porthos and his foe, arms outstretched, each of them fighting for control of a dagger at one end, hands locked around the hilt.

It was a fight for survival. A fight to the death.

Well, Aramis would not let him fight alone. It was the perfect distance. He'd made this shot many times, made it wounded more times than he'd care to remember. He could make this if it came to it, but only if he steadied himself. He could not risk his shot going wide due to his shaking hands, or his body giving in to sick induced vertigo.

No. He needed purchase. Something solid. The low rock to his left would suit and he dropped to one knee behind it, not taking his eyes off his friend, ready to intercede if necessary. He sighted down the barrel and watched. Waiting. Ready to answer if need be.

There he watched and waited, eyes locked on the battle below, heart beating frantically, sweat trickling down one side of his face. He felt every blow, every tumble, every pain that fell upon Porthos as if it were his own.

"Shit…" he swore as his vision suddenly started to waver. He blinked furiously to clear it, but to no avail. He swiped a hand across his eyes, determined to miss nothing. Determined to fight back against his body's weakness, to help Porthos in his fight.

But against all his determination, against all his best efforts to the contrary, his body warred back. Unmerciful dizziness sent the world swirling around him. Aramis cursed again and buried his face in his arms, desperate to drive back the weakness. The pain lancing his ribs…

He'd no idea how long it had been, or when the roaring in his ears had ceased, but when it abated, one thing was instantly noticeable.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Aramis jerked his head up, anxiously taking in the scene before him. Porthos' back was to him and he was on his knees, straddling his attacker, hands on his thighs, shoulders rising and falling, indicative of labored pants. Beneath him, his foe lay sprawled on his back, unmoving, Porthos' dagger protruding from his chest.

Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, Aramis blinked in another image. It was hard to determine shape or clothing, not when trees and foliage wavered and moved like a candle flame, but there was no mistaking the glint of metal amidst the green and brown of the surrounding forest below…

A second attacker.

And Porthos' back was turned; he was completely oblivious to the man coming up behind him, pistol raised and ready to fire.

Aramis considered briefly calling out, but dismissed the idea. The startled attacker would surely discharge his weapon before Porthos ever had time to react.

The marksman knew what he had to do. He lowered his head to take aim and for the first time in his life, he hesitated. With the world before him constantly blurring and coalescing, images shimmering in the bright sun, it all culminated in teasing his mind, planting seeds of doubt. Between the weight of the shot and the life at stake, he found himself uncertain of his skill to shoot true.

At this angle, Porthos was in the same line of fire as the man sneaking up on him. If Aramis' shot was just a hair off...

But fevered dream or not, the man moving up behind Porthos had no such compunction.

Unhampered by doubt, he moved without sound, closer to better his chances, then came to a stop and took aim.

Aramis had no choice. Doubt whispered in his ear, the devil teasing that he could just as easily hit Porthos as he could the assailant. And it was all the marksman could do to push back against his taunting. There was no certainty that his shot would run true, but he had to try.

He muttered a brief prayer of intercession, lowered his head, sighted down the barrel as best he could, exhaled and pulled the trigger.

The last thing he heard was the shot as the rifle recoiled, propelling the stalk back against his shoulder and twisting his weakened body in a manner that his side wound did not appreciate, made quite clear by the stabbing pain that hit him.

Then he was falling. His world going black long before his head hit the ground, long before he could see who where his shot had landed.

With a destination in mind, Athos encouraged his mount to greater speed. Sébastien sat behind him on the saddle, his small hands clutching tightly to the Musketeer's sides as he leaned out in order to keep his eyes on the ground, searching for any sign they might need to alter course.

When Athos occasionally slowed, Sébastien scoured the way ahead and with little more than a quick tap on the Musketeer's arm, they'd be off once more, his eyes returned to the ground for more sign. Athos had to admit, if only to himself, the boy was the consummate tracker, diligent and skilled and he'd come to appreciate the lad.

The path angled down, the slope little more than a gradual decline and once more Athos' mind turned back to the more vertical path Aramis and Porthos had travailed. With no knowledge of the area and no time, he understood their haste but the thought of such a ride, even healthy…

"Hold!" the boy shouted suddenly.

Athos obeyed. He jerked back on the reins and the horse responded, digging his heels into the ground in a spray of dirt and leaves. To his surprise the boy did not dismount, only leaned out and shook his head. "What is it?" he called over his shoulder.

Sébastien was shaking his head, frowning. "Merde…" he whispered then pointed at a set of prints on the ground. "Those are fresh," he said decisively and looked at Athos. "And they are not your friends'."

Athos nodded, eyes scanning the area, their worst fears realized. "Someone thought to check the valley…" he stated, his stomach clenching at the thought that they'd arrived too late. Sébastien didn't answer but instead flashed the Musketeer a grim look. "Is the way ahead easily navigated?"

Sébastien inclined his head and looked around before nodding. "Just keep to this direction," he instructed, looking at Athos, "west I think. Not far ahead, the trail will curve to the left—"

Thunder cracked the silence, echoing off the rock walls of the valley. Athos' horse startled and danced anxiously beneath him. There were no clouds over head but the swordsman didn't need them. He knew that sound.

The sound of a weapon discharged.

"Hang on…" Athos dug his heels into the horse's sides, not waiting for compliance.

It wasn't necessary. Sébastien was upright before he finished, wrapping his arms around the Musketeer's middle in preparation as the horse shot forward and galloped eagerly down the path.

"How many have we lost so far?" The Marquis asked from atop his mount.

They'd stopped to give their hoses a breather, the nobleman never once dismounting, his noble footwear too damn good for the dirt beneath his feet. It was a short respite so the men stood near their mounts, stretching their legs, while Geroux moved about them, daring any to bolt or speak ill of their search before returning to the Marquis' side.

Geroux didn't have to meet his employer's gaze to know the man was upset with him. They'd started out with almost forty men when they had broken into two groups before leaving the village and they were down to just under thirty. The Marquis, too, had lost men but these men, their employment was Geroux's responsibility. The nobleman held him accountable for their unreliability.

Their reduced numbers had come to full light when they'd come together to resume the hunt, after the Marquis' tracker had found prints he had been sure belonged to the Musketeers. The tracker's further efforts, however, had not paid off as the trail disappeared into a stony path, clearly a direction taken by design. These men they hunted were nothing if not clever.

It added fuel to the belief amongst the men that Musketeers were not ordinary prey. And it was grating on Geroux's last nerve.

Though not nearly as much as the abandonment of so many of his men. Cowards, he thought bitterly. Well, he'd show them. He'd show all of them that these men they hunted were just that. Men. No better, no worse than anyone else, despite what the cowards had assumed.

And these Musketeers had better not prove formidable because while the Marquis held title, Geroux was under no illusion that if it got back to the King, and if he were summoned to explain himself, the nobleman wouldn't hesitate to sell him out to save his noble skin. And while Geroux had enough dirt to bury his  _Lordship_ , the King would never listen to a commoner as to just how the Marquis came by his title...

"Twelve," Geroux finally answered as he stepped into the saddle, eyes down as he adjusted his reins in his hands. "But we won't lose any more," he tossed a quick glare over one shoulder, aimed at a few he suspected as having thoughts to the contrary. "I guarantee it."

"Ah yes," the nobleman looked everywhere but at his second. "Your guarantees, I'm beginning to realize, do not merit much in the way of results."

Geroux felt his tenuous control on his temper slip. "My  _guarantees_  have furthered your ambition for power, filled your coffers and kept the King's tax collectors from your door, until now."

The nobleman whipped his head around pinned him with his dark gaze. "Yes, well,  _now_  is really all that matters, isn't it?  _Now_  is the only thing that keeps me out of the bastille and you from dancing at the end of a rope." The Marquis sat up, regaining his composure. "Or need I remind you that all of this was your idea."

It was both their ideas, but Geroux didn't dare offer such a rejoinder. Instead he looked away, realizing frustration had gotten the better of him. False Marquis or not, he was still of noble blood and one simply didn't do that with a nobleman. Besides, let the ass think he'd suffer for his mistakes, it gave Geroux some satisfaction because in his heart, he knew better. All the nobleman would have to do was whine and beg before Louis and Geroux would lose his head.

"You'll get your results," Geroux hissed low so as to not attract attention. The men need not see the collapse of faith the Marquis had in him.

"Really?" the Marquis arched one fine brow. "Down twelve men and your scouts. Or have you forgotten about them? They should have sent word by now, should they not?"

No. He'd not forgotten about them.

Since the groups had converged, they'd done little more than ride in large circles, with no clear direction to search and a cold trail. It was fraying on the nerves. Eager to get on with the fight but with no certainty as to where their prey had gone, Geroux had suggested sending out trackers.

Four, to be exact and thus far, they were overdue. But he'd been so sure of these men…

The Marquis leaned in to Geroux. "You realize, of course, you have as much or more to lose if these  _Musketeers_  make it back to Paris to report to the King…"

"They won't," Geroux growled. "I'll get them. I took down one that was sent out to find them, didn't I?" He had purposefully left out the fact that there'd been two and only one accounted for...

"One." The Marquis huffed and righted himself. "There are still two men out there who managed so far to slip through your hands like water." He pinned Geroux with a promise of reprisal and spoke louder. "I will not have my good name besmirched by common soldiers, be they the King's men or my own."

"They're far from common soldiers, my Lord."

The Marquis look sharply at the man who'd spoken up. Gaspard seemed unconcerned by the nobleman's narrowed gaze, and unintimidated by Geroux's. Instead he shrugged and looked from the Marquis to Geroux.

"Or so that's what those that left seem to think."

The Marquis pulled to a stop, the immediate effect bringing them all to halt. "And is that what you think?"

Gaspard grinned, the sight devoid of most his teeth. "I ain't paid to think, my Lord. I'm paid to fight."

The Marquis gave a satisfied nod and with it, the tension eased. The noblemen prodded his horse and together the men continued, their pace no more than a steady cantor they'd kept since sending out scouts.

Geroux was still inclined to believe his tactic would work. He'd sent them out in pairs, with instructions to weave out and back but to never stray far from one another so that, when they found sign, one could bring back word to the larger group and then they would take them on together. Unfortunately for Geroux, the plan had not yet yielded results and he knew the Marquis' patience was waning.

The unmistakable retort of weapon fire brought the group to a sudden stop. They looked from one to another, their faces a myriad of questions.

"That was a shot," Geroux informed. "I sent two men that way."

"What is over there…?" The Marquis queried.

"A rather steep valley." He gazed at the Marquis, a slow, ugly smile curling one side of his face as he sensed this was the break they needed. "But with a safe trail down if one knows where to look."

"I presume you know where this trail is?"

"Oh yeah," the red haired man's eyes glittered darkly. "I know."

"You may well have redeemed yourself, Geroux. But mark me," the Marquis said before turning to gaze down his nose at him. "Do not disappoint me again. My patience grows thin."

Geroux didn't give a toss about whether or not the Marquis was disappointed. Like the rest of his men, he wanted his money but along with it, he wanted revenge. These Musketeers had made a fool out of him for too long and they'd put him at odds with the best source of income and power he'd ever had in years. And he wasn't about to let that slip.

"Well boys!" Geroux shouted at the group, edging his horse out front and turning to face them. "What are we waiting for? Lets kill us some Musketeers!"

To a man, they shot off, Geroux out in front, the Marquis and the rest trailing just behind him. It was time to get this over with, once and for all.

Porthos froze in place waiting for the pain to hit him. But it never came.

Knowing how the surge of battle could mask such things, he patted down his torso, searching for a wound.

A groan issued from behind him. Porthos spun, his dagger extended and waving menacingly in a now slack grasp.

Another man, no doubt one of the Marquis', had gotten the drop on him. Arm outstretched, a pistol in his slack grasp.

Porthos stood slowly, watching the macabre scene as the man's body had yet registered its own death. He wavered in place, one eye open and staring ahead, and where the other should have been was a bloody hole. Blood trickled lazily down before dropping off his jaw and landing in the dirt with a dull thud. The man soon followed, landing face first. Dead.

Realization suddenly slammed home. Porthos knew of only one man capable of making such a shot. He glanced up sharply, eyes searching the place beyond the slope where the cave lay. Waited for movement. For a wave, a familiar cocky face smiling back at him…

There was no one.

He sprinted to the incline in three large strides and bounded up the slope, the need to get to his friend driving against the fatigue of battle present only moments before. At the rise he turned and ambled quickly up the path leading up to the cave, catching sight of Aramis, sprawled on the ground, musket on the ground near his side, his ghostly pale skin a sharp contrast to his dark hair.

"Aramis…" Porthos growled and reached his side, sliding in the dirt to land near his head. "Hey," he tapped his face lightly. "No sleeping now. We got to get out of here." He looked around them frantically.

The marksman's eyes opened to mere slits and he grinned up at his friend. "Not dreaming," he raised an unsteady hand and patted Porthos' arm. "You're okay… thank God… thank God."

Porthos shook his head in mild annoyance. "Yeah but you're not. What the hell were you thinking, huh? They'll have heard that shot."

"I missed. Shot too high. Missed…"

"What are you going on about, you idiot?" Porthos lay a hand on his friend's forehead and swore. Not as bad as before but he was still too hot. "You didn't miss. You shot him straight through the eye."

"Wa— was aiming for the… heart." With that he lost his tenuous grasp on consciousness and passed out.

Porthos lowered his head, clutching Aramis closer to him, trying to catch his breath and balance his thoughts. They'd have to leave now, not that he'd not anticipated it before, especially now that scouts had found their trail, but he'd hoped they'd be able to leave in a less frantic exodus.

That shot. The trackers. The latter guaranteed the Marquis was in the vicinity and the former most certainly sealed their fate. They had to have heard that shot but he couldn't fault Aramis for it, his heart had been in the right place and even without the shot, the disappearance of the Marquis' scouts would have signaled a problem. They need only to search the location of their lost scouts to come to the same conclusion. At most, Porthos could only hope the sound had echoed enough to make it less certain.

Porthos glanced down at his friend. In repose, Aramis' face was slack and his breathing a little more labored than he'd like. Clearly he'd undone all the good that rest had done him. Would he be able to withstand another long, hectic ride? The dark-skinned Musketeer doubted it.

No. There was no way Aramis would be able to sit a horse and the reality of it burning like acid in Porthos' gut brought him full circle. They could not leave. They— _he_  would stay and fight. And if he could manage to rouse his friend, they'd fight together. Like soldiers. Make their last stand here, now. This looked as good a place as any to die and he would not go down easy. They'd make these men regret having toyed with Musketeers.

The cave. He needed to get Aramis back in the cave, ready their weapons, prepare to meet the Marquis and his men. His muscles protested when he rose and his legs were weak, still reeling from the fight and the constant struggle before that.

Porthos' legs wavered but he willed them to support him as reached down to gather Aramis and return him to shelter. But he could not even manage that, his arms seemingly in league with his legs, refusing to take on more than they already had.

Angry tears of frustration welled and blurred his vision. Porthos, the big and strong Musketeer couldn't seem to find the strength to carry a single man to safety. Wiping his treacherous emotions away, he stood and hooked his arms underneath Aramis' armpits and laced them over his chest, preparing to drag him back to the cave.

It was an undignified and torturous journey upon which Porthos more than once found himself landing on his ass in the dirt, an unconscious Aramis sprawled out on top of him, knowing that one of those times, he might lack the strength and courage to get back up and try again.

But they couldn't stay where they were. They were too exposed; they would not be able to defend themselves out in the open and Porthos was certain of one thing; if he couldn't manage to drag them both back toward the cave, they would both be dead by nightfall. So even with the whole of his strength depleted, every muscle, every part of his flesh screaming for rest, he ignored the call for respite and struggled to his feet once more.

Leagues outside of Paris and moving at a steady pace, Treville and a contingent of five Musketeers rode with a singular purpose; to find their brothers and return them home.

However, like the brothers who'd gone before them, they'd little to go on save for the route Aramis and Porthos had mapped prior to their leaving, the very same Athos and D'Artagnan had. At this point, he only hoped he'd find his men whole and hale, though he was beginning to doubt that would be the case. Not even the most optimistic of men could explain such a prolonged absence without involving some sort of disaster or dire event.

During their ride, the Musketeer Captain thought back to his brief meeting with the Queen. The King, however much it benefited Treville in his quest, was shuttered in his rooms refusing to see anyone for fear of contracting the malaise that many in Paris had been subjected, even the commander of his own guard. The Cardinal too had not presented a problem; the man had fled Paris for his country estate, claiming  _affairs of state_ , but Treville knew that for all he criticized Louis' childish attitudes, he too had retreated in fear of contracting whatever plagued the city and thought the safest place for him would be as far from it as possible.

The Queen had agreed to an audience with him easily, given her gratitude over the many times his men had saved her life, these men in particular. Of that much he'd been certain. And he'd even expected she'd allow his departure, despite their reduced ranks, but there'd been something else.

At the mention that two, and now four of his best men were unaccounted for, she'd listened keenly, her countenance clearly disturbed by the news. But if he were at all prone to fits of curiosity, he could have sworn she took particular interest at his indication that Aramis was one of the two Musketeers missing, something that the Captain chose to ignore for the sake of France and his thinning hair.

But his ruminations over the Queen's interests ground to a halt. Ahead, plumes of dirt spray from the ground at the approach of riders. Treville raised a hand, shouting for them to hold and the obeyed immediately, drawing weapons only as their Captain pulled his pistol.

Four men missing already and Treville had lost his patience for coincidences, especially on this road.

So they watched, even as the riders slowed, obviously aware of their presence when, before too long, one of them gave a shout and urged his horse to continue. The latter took a moment but was soon moving to catch up.

"Flanking positions...," Treville called evenly, studying the approaching riders. His men moved to station on either side of him, fanned out for better firing coverage.

Close enough to recognize now, Treville swore under his breath. "Holster weapons," he shouted as he heeled his mount to close the distance. They drew abreast, both d'Artagnan and the Captain stopping with only feet separating them.

D'Artagnan grinned. "I am—" he exhaled, obviously relieved but out of breath, "so glad to see you."

The Captain's gaze traveled his man with a measure of concern. "I take it you found trouble," he offered with a nod at the dried blood and dirt covering one side of his face.

"Actually," the young Musketeer looked at the stranger next to him, "it found us."

Treville scrutinized the other man with curiously. "And you are?"

"Antoine Pascal," the farmer offered. "The one responsible for scraping your young Musketeer here off the ground a ways back."

"You have my thanks," the Captain nodded graciously.

Antoine ignored the social pleasantries and looked at the men surrounding the Musketeer Captain. "You wouldn't happen to have a few dozen more men on their way, would you?"

"Why would I need more men?" Trevill asked but quickly turned toward the younger man. "What's happened? Where is Athos? Did you find Aramis and Porthos?"

"I know so little for certain but," d'Artagnan wiped at his brow, careful of the wound on his head. "Some nobleman in the area with a small army in his employ seems to bear some reason for seeing Aramis and Porthos dead."

"Dead!" Treville barked.

"Yes sir." d'Artagnan straightened in his saddle, eager to be underway. "Athos and I only found this out when we ran into a small contingent of the Marquis' men. They boasted of having wounded one and by his description…" he looked anxiously at Treville, "it was Aramis."

Not a man among the small group of Musketeers took the news lightly. They grumbled, gazing at one another eager to exact retribution on behalf of a brother, agitation and anger setting in.

Treville silenced them with a look before fixing his eyes on d'Artagnan once more. "And Athos?"

"Gone ahead to the small village where we believed Aramis and Porthos might have taken shelter. He was hoping to gather more information." D'Artagnan looked eagerly at his commander. "I was to return to the garrison to persuade you to return with men." He looked relieved at his fellow Musketeers. "Seems I needn't have bothered."

Treville's eyes grew steely. "How many men does this  _nobleman_ —a Marquis you say?" The younger man nodded. "How many does he have?"

"The group we encountered was around twenty-five or so." D'Artagnan gingerly fingered the dried blood on the side of his head. "The same group I ran into later…"

Antoine scoffed. "Oh he's got more'n that," he rocked back in his saddle, shaking his head, "I guarantee it. You run into a smaller group, likely one of two or three out searching for your friends, which is a good sign since searching likely means they've not found your men yet."

"And how long ago was your last encounter?" Treville glanced quickly at the Gascon, hope edging his tone.

"No idea," D'Artagnan shrugged. "I was a bit unconscious, I'm afraid."

"Understood," the Captain nodded but ground his teeth in frustration. "Still, that leaves us with no idea whether or not we should continue to the village where Athos may or may not be by now..."

"And risk wasting time Aramis and Porthos do not have," the Gascon shook his head.

"I may have a notion on that," Antoine interrupted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully then looked at d'Artagnan. "Only way I found you was when Geroux—" he looked quickly at Treville, "he leads the Marquis' men— and his group scuttled out of the trees and shot off. Remember?"

"Of course," D'Artagnan responded, seemingly onto what the farmer was intimating. "And they were heading east."

"Right," Antoine nodded. "The village is south, only…" he hesitated a bit, "judging by the way they were riding," he looked at Treville, "they had a bead on something. Maybe your men, maybe not but something."

The Captain's mouth drew into a grim line. "Can you follow their trail?"

"That many horses riding that fast, hell," Antoine grinned, "we could be hours behind and still see the dust they kicked up still hanging in the air. In fact," the farmer seemed to straighten, "if they headed south, I might have an idea where they are."

"Why didn't you tell me this when you found me?" D'Artagnan all but whined.

"You were headed to Paris for more men," he offered in his defense. "Now you have more men—well,  _some_  more." He looked again at the Musketeers around him. "On that note, you sure you don't got any more men you can scrounge up?"

"We will make due," the Captain responded, his eyes glinting with unmasked desire to find his men and exact retribution. Around him, the Musketeer contingent nodded in agreement, in fact, they looked murderous.

"Yup, thought as much," Antoine sat back on his horse and shook his head. "All Musketeers suffer from delusions of grandeur. Well," he made to turn his horse, "lets go. That trail isn't getting any warmer."

"Antoine," d'Artagnan shot a hound out and grabbed one of his horses' reins stopping him. "You've done more than enough. This is Musketeer business. You don't have to come."

"Like hell I don't," he sat up straight, affronted at the suggestion. "If there's even a chance that shit Geroux and his lot will get a comeuppance, I aim to be there and lend a hand. That is," he looked at Captain Treville. "Assuming you'll allow it."

"As you said," Treville responded, one side of his mouth twitching to hold back a grin. "We need more men. You're welcome to come and help, but if you should change your mind, just get us close and no hard feelings."

The farmer gave a satisfied nod. "I can shoot if you've extra powder and shot. Not much hand with a blade though, unless it's a plow…" he grinned.

Treville nodded to one of his men moved his horse alongside the farmer and began rummaging for extra supplies. The Captain then looked quickly at d'Artagnan. "You good to ride?"

The Gascon nodded, his eyes dark. "Try to stop me."

All pretense and caution thrown to the wind leagues back, Athos galloped down the path. Only the feel of Sébastien's fingers digging into his side, holding on for dear life, gave any indicator that the boy had managed to stay seated, because the Musketeer was of a singular purpose; find Aramis and Porthos. He'd given way to the care of all else but his friends and his driving need to reach them in time.

Lost in determination and the sound of his own horse's bounding pace, Athos didn't hear the fleeing horse until it was nearly too late.

The animal crashed around the bend in the trail, careening toward them, its bloodshot eyes wide and terrified. The surprise nearly unseated them both. Athos horse shrieked and sidestepped to keep from colliding with the roan as it ran anxiously toward them. In the contortion to move from the frightened animal's path, Athos heard the boy cry out just as he felt him lose his hold. He reached back blindly to grab hold of Sébastien and just managed to keep him aboard.

They remained on the shoulder of the trail as the other horse sprinted, Athos working to regain control of his mount all the while. Once by them, Athos stared at the animal as it disappeared in the distance, its reins and stirrups flapping unchecked in the tumult of its exodus.

"That's not a Musketeer horse…" Athos panted before returning his gaze to where the horse had come and their destination.

"The Marquis' then…" Sébastien said, his voice quiet. The boy sounded more than a little rattled at having nearly fallen beneath the hooves of the frantically exiting beast.

Athos did not answer. Instead he reached back and held out a hand and the boy took it without question. He'd dismounted this way so many times, the boy knew immediately what the Musketeer asked of him and let himself be lowered to the ground.

"I'm going to ride ahead and see what's happened. I want you to hide in that thick brush over there and stay put, wait for me to come for you. Can you do that for me?"

Sébastien looked speculatively to the place he indicated then back at Athos. For the first time since leaving the village the angry yet skilled tracker looked scared and very much his age. "Just… please be careful."

One side of Athos' face tilted in a grin. "I shall endeavor to do as you say," he acquiesced with a small bow of his head. "But only if you agree to stay hidden until I come back for you. Agreed?"

The boy swallowed but in the end gave a quick jerk of his head in assent. He then turned on one heel and moved to the hiding place in the thicket next to the trail. Once safely ensconced in the thick overgrowth, he knelt and watched. It was a good spot and if Athos hadn't known where to look, he'd never have seen the boy's worried, intense gaze.

Satisfied he'd gained the boy's compliance, Athos turned his horse, this time keeping the animal to a slow, more cautious pace until he was certain of what lay ahead. He didn't have to go far to get his answer. Two dead bodies littered the ground. Neither of them his friends, and for that, he breathed an internal sigh of relief.

Athos dismounted slowly, his eyes scanning his surroundings in case there were others in the area. He walked cautiously to the first dead body, knelt and rolled him over until he was face up, staring sightlessly at the sky through one eye. The other was gone, probably somewhere in the back of the man's skull, forced there by the lead ball of an extremely skilled marksman. The dead man's pistol was still holstered. Athos pulled it and sniffed the barrel. It had not been fired

Definitely a marksman. And Athos knew of only one in particular who possessed that kind of skill.

Athos rose. He had the distinct feeling that he was not alone, well, aside from the dead men… but if he were amongst friends, would they not make themselves known? Unless, for some reason, they were not able…

Once again his gaze tilted to the trees and rocks around him as he straightened and moved quietly over to the next body. More information was needed before he would move on.

This one was on his side facing away and Athos hooked the heel of his boot to roll him onto his back. The dead man was covered in blood from a hole in his chest. Kneeling, Athos pushed the material aside and knew immediately it had been made by a blade. His eyes scanned down the body and noted blood was smeared on the man's pant leg, where it appeared to have been wiped off of something, the blade most likely. Like the other, this one's pistol was cold and unused.

The ground around the man told him much. The grass lay pressed to the dirt for some distance where the way sloped downward, damaged, and the foliage to this point broken in the wake of their struggle. Sébastien was rubbing off on him, he thought dryly. Two men, one a great deal heavier by the impressions in the dirt, battled here, rolling along the ground, vying for dominance and life. Then ending here where this one died.

Intrigued, Athos moved further up the path. He was not alone. He could feel it. He drew his pistol… then the slightest of sounds caught his ear. Heavy breathing. Grunts of exertion. Whispers.

Canting his head in the way the sound seemed to drift from, he noticed the hill. The ground churned and upon closer inspection where the shade seemed thickest, pockmarked, deep wells where something was uprooted, torn from the ground.

The sound was louder here and Athos waited not a moment more, launching himself up the deeper incline. At the top, the words, the susurrations grew more distinct, more familiar with each step he took toward them. It was all he could to keep his feet from moving as quickly as his own racing heart.

Since he could not be certain his friends were alone, he reined in his desire for expediency and slowed his steps. Then, placing a hand over the hammer to muffle the sound, he drew it back.

The sight before him, however, brought both relief and alarm. Porthos, his face from this angle visible only in profile, looked worn and frayed. None too steady on his feet either as he dragged a very still Aramis toward the mouth of a cave.

Still, there was no one else about and Athos could not help the sense of gratitude he felt. "Thank god," he whispered, leaning back to cast a grateful glance upward. He un-cocked the pistol with less caution this time and stepped out into the small clearing.

"You know," Athos returned his pistol to his belt. "You two are most difficult to find when you want to be."

Porthos stumbled to a halt and turned, movement clumsy and awkward as he landed on his backside. His dark, murderous gaze never once left Athos, even as he gathered what the swordsman hoped was just an unconscious Aramis close to himself in one hand, and held what he presumed was a loaded pistol in the other.

Pointed directly at Athos.

Assuming someone had gotten around behind him, Athos twisted and aimed his own pistol. There was no one and he sighed in relief before concern quickly replaced it.

Keeping his hands in sight and his movement slow, Athos turned, his gaze taking in the scene before him. The dark skinned Musketeer's face, his eyes, they were wild and unfocused but within them a determination to protect. And then there was Aramis, laying there, all too still. His arrival alone should have brought him alert if he were able, at least somewhat.

"Porthos?" Athos placed a conciliatory hand out in front of him. He had to make him see reason. If he'd heard that shot, they may very well find themselves with more company than they were prepared for at the moment. "Porthos, it's me, Athos."

"S-stay back," the larger man threatened, his voice dark and promising. "I'll shoot."

Athos could see it now. An exhausted and fearful Porthos was one thing but an exhausted, fearful  _and_ protective Porthos was something else entirely. And dangerous. Especially when he's reached a point where he can no longer tell friend from foe.

"Yes, I believe you would," Athos continued, "but Aramis looks in bad shape. I prefer to help if you'll let me."

Porthos blinked in confusion. The pistol wavered a bit. "Athos?"

"Yes. And I would appreciate very much not being shot." Athos nodded toward Aramis' still form. "One of us is one too many for one day, don't you think?"

Porthos brow wrinkled in confusion and then he looked down at Aramis. He all but dropped the weapon and with both hands tugged his friend fully into his arms, hugging him close. "Help me, Athos. I need to get him into the cave, but I can't. So tired," he all but sobbed.

Athos swallowed and approached. "Then let me help, Porthos," he offered and moved carefully over to kneel next to Aramis. He placed a hand to Aramis' forehead and grimaced. "He's warm but he's not that bad off."

"His fever's back…" Porthos swallowed. "He shouldn't' have done it. Shouldn't' have saved me. Shouldn't have fired."

Athos' mind turned to the gruesome scene he'd come upon. Seeing Aramis' poor condition, the concept that he had been the one to fire that shot lost some ground in his mind. He should not, however, underestimate the marksman's stubbornness when it came to defending his brothers. "He shot that man in the head?"

Porthos nodded a small smile creasing his face. "He did, the idiot."

Athos' disbelief waned, replaced by relief as Aramis' eyes slowly opened.

"I know," Porthos patted the injured man gently on the cheek. "I know. You were aiming at his heart."

"I was," he contained, his voice having gained some strength. Aramis blinked slowly at Athos. "It is… good to see you, m'friend."

Athos nodded. "You as well, though I have seen you look better. Both of you," he added, glancing at Porthos.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Aramis slurred, patting the arm Porthos had slung across his chest. "We look abso-absolutely ravishing… don't we friend?"

Porthos gave a half-hearted huff. "Shuddup and rest, idiot."

One side of Athos' mouth quirked with a barely noticeable smile. "Rest indeed," he glanced at the dark cavern entrance, "but first I suggest we adjourn to the cave. I have a feeling others will have heard that shot and soon we shall have company."

Aramis struggled to sit up and with Athos help, managed enough to allow Porthos room to maneuver out from beneath him. The dark skinned Musketeer got to his feet next, the movement wobbly and lacking his usual strength and when he reached down to take one of Aramis' arms, determined to do this on his own despite his visible fatigue, Athos shot a hand out and grasped Porthos' shoulder until he stopped and met his gaze.

"We shall do it together." Athos gave him a pointed look. "All for one, remember?"

TBC…


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Athos knelt and added the herbs to the pot of heated water, just as Aramis had instructed, then after a quick stir of the mixture, sat back and waited, allowing the tea time to steep. Watching the steam rise lazily off the heated surface, the sounds of his friends conversing quietly outside, drifted into cave and he could not help but smile.

It was hardly the time for it, but despite their still dire circumstances, the swordsman just how fortunate he had been. He’d found them. Not hale but certainly whole—well, more or less.

Dwelling on it, the sudden relief hit him all at once and for the first time since leaving Paris, Athos exhaled deeply, feeling the fear and worry that had held him prisoner these many hours, wash from his troubled soul.

“Need some help?” Porthos’ voice cut through his musings and Athos twisted to see the larger man standing at the cave entrance, gazing inside.

“No,” Athos responded, realizing he’d obviously taken longer than he ought. “Almost done.” Grabbing some wadded cloth to wrap around the metal handle, he picked up the pot to pour a portion into the cup. “I’ll be right there.”

Out of his periphery, he watched the larger Musketeer gave a quick grunt of acceptance before moving back to rejoin Aramis and Sebastien out by the rocky outcropping. The big man then folded down to the ground easily to continue their conversation.

Athos set the pot down and shook his head, annoyed with himself. Burdened with more than his share of doubts, many of which proved unfounded, he would never wish to confess to anyone just how deep his fear had run over the last several hours. Fear that he’d either never find his friends, or that he _would_ find them. Dead.

Shaking off his dark thoughts he rose to his feet, cup in hand and moved carefully so as not to slosh the water over the edges and scald his hand. At the cave opening he stopped, taking a moment to offer his silent thanks to whatever forces present in their lives that allowed their relationship to continue and moreover, watch his friends deal with the force of nature named Sebastien...

Stick in hand, the boy sat across from a pale but conscious Aramis and Porthos, pointing at the crude map he’d etched in the dirt of their surroundings. All three heads were bent in deep concentration, the boy indicating with his stick, various points on the ground, his knowledge of the area proving invaluable in their ability to plan. Still, it pained Athos to have placed him in such imminent danger and wished it could be otherwise.

Across from the boy, Porthos sat hunched forward, intent on the drawing, asking question, his eyes alight with the coming battle and yet fatigued for their journey. The marksman’s posture was in stark contrast. Aramis sat upright, but in deference to his wounded side, his back supported by a large boulder, the pain he attempted not to show still prevalent in even the slightest of movements.

Clearly neither Porthos nor Aramis were in any condition to ride, but if fighting was all that was left them, they would do it with zeal and great skill, as they did in all things. He moved over to give Aramis the tea he’d prepared, kneeling to set it next to the marksman in order to limit his movement as it clearly pained him to do so.

Porthos eyes were fixed on the crude map. “And you’re sure that’s the only way into this valley?” he queried, head lifting to gaze at the boy.

“Yes,” Sébastien nodded then looked haltingly at Porthos, then to Aramis. “Well, unless you’re crazy enough to come down the way you did.”

Aramis chuckled, but the pull on his side made him regret it. The slight hiss caught Porthos’ attention and he glanced at his friend. “Crazy…” the larger man answered, his eyes dark with concern, “… or desperate.”

“A little of both, perhaps,” Aramis added with a grin then began looking around. “If they do come in from that direction, our numbers may be few but we have the high ground, at least. I can set up behind these rocks, pick a few off before they know what hit them.”

Porthos looked unhappy at that declaration. “Yeah, and likely end up face first in the dirt. Again.”

“Aramis,” Athos interrupted, handing Aramis the cup but refusing to release it until the injured man met his gaze. “I trust you will drink _all_ of it…”

Between the odd knock, ailment and truly dire injury, they were all familiar with the tea-like concoction that Aramis had forced down each of them over the years. Yes, it had aided in relieving pain but it also tasted like cow piss and he’d never ceased to chide them when they balked at the medicinal drink. While certainly no one wanted to see him hurt, there was a certain amount of satisfaction at seeing him quite literally having a taste of his own medicine.

Aramis glared mildly at Athos as the swordsman moved to take a seat on the other side of Porthos, the latter fighting to hide his smirk. “I think you—the both of you—” he growled but blew over the top to cool the drink, “are enjoying this a bit too much.”

The smell hit Sébastien and he waved a hand in front of his face. “What is that? It… stinks.”

Porthos chuckled. “Tastes like horse piss,” he grinned at Aramis, then at the boy, “and smells like it too.”

One side of Athos mouth turned up. “It’s one of Aramis’ herbal pain remedies,” he explained and turned to watch Aramis put the cup to his mouth and grimace. “White willow bark tea with some other herbs he has added over the years. It reduces pain.”

“And fever,” Aramis added with some pride, to which Athos conceded with a nod of his head. “And works remarkably well.”

“Well,” Porthos chided. “What are you waitin’ for?”

“Right…,” Aramis said, less than enthused. He lifted the cup in salute. “Down the hatch!” The marksman’s face pinched in disgust but he tipped his head back and downed the remedy without stopping. When the container was empty, his face contorted in revulsion and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “God that’s… that’s…”

“Disgusting?” Porthos offered with a grin. “Good to know it doesn’t get any easier even for you.”

“Well, gentlemen,” Athos interrupted, changing the topic. “I doubt we have long before the Marquis and his men descend upon us. Have we arrived at any conclusion on how best to defend ourselves?”

Porthos looked at him grimly. “You mean aside from the fact that we’re outnumbered, thirty to three?”

Athos gave him a pointed look. “Most especially because we are outnumbered.” He looked at each of them. “But the Marquis employs mercenaries. I suspect their tastes lean toward easy victories and untrained targets.”

Aramis grinned. “Then we shall make certain they know Musketeers are neither of those things.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

Porthos nodded, his mouth in a determined line. “Well,” he pointed at the map Sébastien had drawn for them, “we know which direction they’ll be coming. According to the lad, the trail he brought you in on is the only safe way into the valley.”

Athos nodded, studying the map. “You are suggesting an ambush,” he nodded. “It is a good start.”

“And,” Aramis interjected, his voice excited at the prospect of some revenge, “I could set up behind these rocks,” he added, clearly hoping that his suggestion would be better received the second time around. “And pick some off from here.”

Porthos huffed and shook his head. “That’s not happening. You’ll get off one shot, give away your position and _if_ you manage to reload and not to end up face first in the dirt, they’ll be on you before you can retreat. _If_ you’re able, that is.”

“And you suggest I... what?” Aramis looked incredulously at Porthos, so certain he was joking. “Hide in the cave?”

“No,” Porthos rebuffed, “not hiding. Fighting. From in there,” he pointed at the rocked enclosure, “shootin’ at whatever isn’t me or Athos steppin’ through that entry.”

Aramis looked at Porthos, clearly irritated but restrained.  “I appreciate your concern but I am not spending the entirety of this battle in the cave. I can set up out here and shoot from where I can do the most good. Tell him Athos.”

Athos considered both of their positions carefully and worked that against the events of the last few days. They’d been on the run for more than twenty-four hours and all the while, Porthos had fought to keep them moving and his friend alive. The recounting of their arrival at the cave and dealing more directly with Aramis’ wound, surely the combination of all these things, to a degree, led to the dark skinned Musketeer’s reluctance to let Aramis fight. They were not safe yet, so by and large, Porthos was still working toward that goal: Keep Aramis alive.

Then there was Aramis. While the marksman didn’t appear to be in fighting shape the truth of his value and skill was also a consideration. As much as he and Porthos might wish to keep Aramis – and the boy – out of harm's way, the luxury of such decisions could very well prove fatal if they were given precedence.

“Porthos…” the former comte began carefully, his eyes slowly locking on Aramis, “may have a point.” Aramis looked at him in shocked anger, a rebuttal on his lips. “Clearly every move pains you. You may get off a shot but reloading would require moving faster than I think you are prepared for.”

Aramis was quiet a moment. “Fine,” he conceded but there was something brewing in his mind and his eyes darted about. “I have two pistols and two muskets. Load them all, leave them nearby and that’s still four men I could take out before either of you.”

“That may be,” Athos offered, “but what if you miss because of the pain?”

“Athos, please,” Aramis scoffed. “I never miss.”

Porthos huffed. “Well, that wasn’t what you were saying a moment ago when I came up here to find you actually face first in the dirt.”

“How bad is it?” Athos asked and when the marksman looked to have a readied answer, he tilted his head, the look alone enough to give the other Musketeer pause. “The truth, Aramis.”

The injured man shifted a bit, the wound clearly pulling enough to give discomfort even at the small movement. “It’s painful, yes. But I’m sure that once the fighting starts, it won’t matter. You know how it is, Athos.”

“Yeah,” Porthos interjected, “he does. We all do. But there is only so much a body can take before even the rush of battle no longer helps.”

“You will not keep me out of this fight.” Aramis leaned in to make his point, a hand on his side, supporting his wound, the skin around his eyes strained at the movement. “Neither of you.”

“Aramis has a point,” Athos agreed and when Porthos threw up his hands and Aramis looked to gloat, the swordsman held up both hands, one extended to each of them, effectively silencing them both. “If I may suggest an alternative course of action.” He looked first at Porthos. “We can ill afford to not utilize what few resources we have at our disposal and we all know that Aramis’ skill with musket cannot be dismissed under such dire circumstances.”

Aramis nodded in triumph and Porthos sighed in defeat. “But,” Athos continued, looking this time at Aramis, “that does not mean we won’t take some precautions.” Both men looked confused as he turned to Sébastien. “How good are you at loading a musket?”

The boy grinned and from there, their plans began to take shape.

The valley’s trail seemed to grow more narrow and thick as they progressed. Geroux was not as familiar with the area as the two men he’d sent to scout it, and neither were the others still in his employ. He knew men like them. They were easily swayed to fits of superstition and rumor and both had long plagued the very notion of the King's Musketeers. He knew they were spooked.

Geroux had to admit, if to no one other than himself, these two Musketeers had proven formidable opponents, certainly more so than two men, wounded and with limited resources had a right to be. But he wasn’t so much like his men that he believed them to possess some kind of unnatural ability. He believed in skill that, mixed with a certain amount of luck, gave one man an advantage over another. Simple as that.

Now, if only some of that luck would pay him a visit. Then he’d get this over with and they could get back to life as it had been before.

Geroux squinted at the way ahead and raised a hand. To a man, the group slowed until their horses drew to a stop. Here the trail was eerie and deep; he did not like the looks of this.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Marquis barked, pulling his horse alongside Geroux. “Why are we stopping”

“Because the trail angles so sharply ahead I can’t see what’s around the bend. And see the vegetation?” He pointed to either side as it narrowed just before the curve. “It’s thick on either side and makes the shadows deeper. Almost blots out the sun.”

The Marquis studied the area then shrugged. “And?”

Geroux canted his head at his employer. “And … I don’t fancy riding into an ambush. Don’t reckon my men do either.”

The nobleman glared at his second. “We are fearful of, at best, a single man ambushing thirty? That is absurd.”

The men were buzzing, talking quietly amongst themselves. Some agreeing with Geroux, others scoffing at his hesitancy, clearly siding with the Marquis. Fools. Every last one of them. He’d learned a long time ago that when fighting someone else's battles, only when victory was certain were they worth being fought. So if some of his men wanted to rush in without him, so be it. They could all die for all he cared.

“Look!” One of his men shouted, pointing ahead, eyes wide.

A man stood in the middle of the trail, just before it bent out of sight. Easily over six feet tall, he towered amidst the shadows of the surrounding trees, his body little more than a silhouette, behind him an odd cloudy mist rose to fill in the empty spaces. When he stepped into the light, Geroux recognized him instantly as one of the two Musketeers they’d been pursuing.

“That’s one of them,” someone called out and to a man, they drew their weapons, the hiss of rapiers being pulled from scabbards filled the air, along with the jangle of leather, followed by the click a hammers being pulled back as pistols were made ready to fire.

Geroux was about to give the order to shoot when the Marquis spoke up. “Hold your fire!” he shouted and the men froze, their weapons still out but not engaged.

“What?” Geroux snapped. “We should kill him now while he is out in the open and vulnerable. Why delay?”

The Marquis glared at his second. “Because I am in charge here and I said to hold fire.” He turned and squinted at Porthos. “I’m curious to hear what one so brash would have to say.”

Geroux recoiled but held his tongue. It wasn’t until the Marquis returned his gaze to the Musketeer in the path that he shook his head at the foolishness of his employer. He moved over to some of the men who’d hung back, seemingly reluctant to blindly following their patron.

“Fan out…” he whispered. “Get into position and take a shot. I want this man dead, you hear me?” The men nodded in agreement and broke up to do his bidding, guiding their horses around to the edges. Geroux moved back to his place at the Marquis’ side.

D’Évreux, none the wiser to his plan, kept his eyes fixed on the Musketeer and sat straighter in the saddle, a smug, victorious grin on one side of his face.

“So,” the Marquis shouted across the expanse that divided them, “you’ve come to beg for mercy.”

The dark skinned Musketeer hooked thumbs in his belt, looking far too relaxed for a man in his situation. “No,” he smiled; a most unsettling thing that did not reach his eyes. “I’ve come to accept _your_ surrender.”

It was quiet a moment, the air full of stunned silence. The men exchanged glances, some curious, others concerned or uncertain, most a combination of all three.

The nobleman suddenly threw his head back and laughed. “Perhaps you cannot count, or fell on your head recently,” he continued. Some of Geroux’s moved to flank the Marquis, confident of victory while others, like Geroux himself, hung back, leery of how this was playing out. “I have thirty men at my disposal. You stand there alone, demanding terms of me?”

“Absolutely,” Porthos nodded. “I mean; I’d offer the same to your men but I imagine they’ll take off soon enough once they start dying. Mercenaries aren’t exactly a reliable lot.”

A shot suddenly rang out, followed by a pain filled shriek. All eyes turned to watch one of the men Geroux had conspired with earlier clutch his bloodied hand tight to his chest, his pistol lying useless in the dirt.

The dark skinned musketeer shook his head. “You really think I’d step out here without someone watching my back?” he said moving a few steps to his left. “Which kind of brings me to my next point…I’m not alone.”

All eyes tracked his movement and for the first time, they noticed the outline of four men tucked just behind the trees at various points, two to his left, another to three to the right of the trail. More importantly, each held what appeared to be a musket and they were pointed directly at them.

“See,” Porthos continued. “While you and your men were failing to catch us, my men found us first.” He stopped at the edge of the trail. “You're surrounded.” He said, crossing his arms over his chest in triumph. “You’ve got exactly to the count of three to choose between dropping your weapons or dying. One…”

It didn’t take much more than that for Geroux’s men to devolve into a panicked mess. They argued about various forms of retreat and fight. Some ready to leave, declaring it was more trouble than they’d bargained for in this job. Others still finding some measure of pride that spoke of remaining to see it through. In the cacophony of raised voices and anxious horses, Geroux grabbed the Marquis’ arm to get his attention.

“We should withdraw to consider—”

“Two…” a different voice called out, the enclosure of the forest making it impossible to pinpoint its location.

The Marquis jerked his head around and sneered at Geroux. “What is there to consider?” he hissed thinly while the rest of the men waited. “How much of a coward you are?” He jerked his arm free. “They’re bluffing! Can’t you see?”

“… three!” yet a different man shouted.

“Good choice!” Porthos added with a blood-thirsty snarl.

No sooner were those words spoken when the forest floor erupted into a tumult of musket fire. All around the group of men, trees splintered, rocks struck by hailing lead, shot up from the ground, perilously close to their horse’s hooves. In reaction, the animals whinnied in surprise and fear, then began to dance, some rearing up to unseat their riders. Bullets seemed to be coming at them from all directions. It was bedlam.

They’d ridden hard for nearly three hours, keeping their horses to a steady gallop so as not to wear them out. It was harder now. With a destination in mind and a desire to reach their brothers, it was all Treville himself could do to maintain pace.

A distant sound of weapons fire caught d’Artagnan’s ear and he halted his mount, the others stopping alongside where he and Antoine led.

Head tilted to one side, the Gascon looked at Antoine. “That’s musket fire, I’m certain of it.”

Antoine nodded in agreement. “A lot of it too, if I’m any guess.”

Treville moved his mount next to d’Artagnan, careful to skirt the more skittish horse the farmer road. “Is that coming from the direction we’re headed?”

“I think so…,” Antoine responded. “With all that echo, it’s hard to say for certain but I’m thinking it’s coming from the valley area.”

Some of the men, older and more experienced, their eyes immediately locked on Treville, waiting for his signal on what to do next. The younger of them, gazed around questioningly, but they all fingered their pistols, checked muskets, ready for anything.

“How much further do you gather that trail is?” D’Artagnan inquired, all of them understanding that if they’d not much distance to make, they could push their horses harder.

More popping issued in the distance, the cadence this time sparser and more erratic.

Tension high among them, Antoine’s horse danced anxiously about but the farmer soon maneuvered the horse back in line. “Eh,” he gazed around them uncertainly, rubbing at his jaw. “I’m not altogether certain. Don’t go there often myself so time’s a tricky thing to gage.”

Treville’s mouth drew into a tight line, a sure sign of his mounting frustration. “Yet you are you at least certain of our direction?”

“Oh aye, sir.” he said, whipping his head around to maintain eye contact with the Musketeer Captain as the horse continued to dance beneath him. “I’d stake my life on it. And it makes sense. Plenty of places a man can hide down there.”

Treville moved his horse close and grabbed one rein of the farmer’s horse in attempt to steady the animal. “We are about to ride into battle, sir. If your horse will not settle, you will remain here. Point us in the right direction, we should find our way from here.”

Antoine looked from the Captain to D’Artagnan and back again. “That won’t be necessary,” he said brandishing one of the proffered pistols he’d been leant earlier and grinned at Treville. “My horse is just more eager to fight than yours.” He grinned.

Treville backed off, released the rein and nodded. “Then do your damndest and lead the way, or there will be no fight in which to engage if we are too late.”

Just as quickly as the gunfire began, it stopped.

Geroux got his bearings fast enough to see a change in the landscape. The big Musketeer was gone and from several places around them, smoke seemed to rise out of the ground that skirted the trail, and began filling the area. Bluff or not, they were still at a tactical disadvantage. If they withdrew, he could use the time to rein in his men, make a plan, keep them from bolting.

As it was, they were out of their depth. Every man began twisting and turning in their saddles, searching for any sign that the Musketeer was telling the truth. Their sight was obscured by the thickening smoke, pouring in from the sides, from all around them.

The smoke combined with the shadows seemed to engulf them. The smell of it was familiar, earthy, an effort to blind them. And why would they want to blind them? Unless this was a ruse…

“Marquis d’Évreux,” Geroux grabbed the nobleman’s sleeve and jerked him hard to get his attention. He leaned toward the man, his face intense. “You must listen to me—”

D’Évreux jerked his arm out of Geroux’ grasp. “You forget your place. You and your men work for me.”

“Well, Marquis d’Évreux?” Porthos’ voice bellowed and they all turned to look at the man who once more filled the passage ahead of them. “I am prepared to accept your surrender. What shall it be? Lay down your weapons? Or attack the King by attacking his guard?”

Marquis d’Évreux straightened in the saddle, his gaze locked on Porthos. “I will not take orders from common soldiers,” he drew his sword, even as his face was quickly engulfed in the thick curtain of smoke.  Geroux could just make him out as he turned his horse to face the men. “Forty livre for any man who follows me in. Another ten for each dead musketeer!”

Geroux knew the promise of riches sealed the fate of every man there as even those who’d been more reluctant now raised their rapiers and joined in the chorus. If this turned bad, he knew without a doubt the Marquis’ resolve would waiver, especially if his own life was jeopardized. So, determined to keep an eye on them he followed as his men all but disappeared into the thick smoke.

Ginning at their foe’s confusion, Porthos ducked and lit the last of the fire before loping up the side of the hill, stopping only long enough to watch as the thick smoke began drifting up before dropping to fill the trail. Just as they’d planned, it added to the already copious white cloud Athos had started on the other side.

The decoy’s, the delay between counts for Athos to move from one to the next, so far it had all worked. But he was not ready to proclaim victory just yet. They were far from done, and farther still from being safe.

The sound of men shouting, unfamiliar voices, got him moving. He scrambled up the side and made his way along the slope until he was on the other side of the smoke filled portion of the trail. At his fighting spot, he found the pistols and musket he’d left earlier, and waited. If any of the Marquis’ men still had a stomach for the fight, he’d gladly give them one.

Crouching down behind the large rock, he gripped his musket and glanced over to the other side, waiting to catch sight of Athos. It took longer than he thought it should but their leader soon emerged from behind the cloud and took his predetermined position as well. He waved at Porthos, a sign that he was okay and ready, and there they waited.

Porthos glanced more to the left and up, to where he knew the cave to be. Despite being furthest, Aramis’ shot had proven to be as true as ever, taking out the first of their enemy and positively sending a chill up the spine of those who remained. He only hoped his friend hadn’t undone, yet again, all the good they’d done after his last attempt to help.

Porthos braced himself, eyes locked on the rocky outcrop that he knew sat out front of the cave, and waited. It wasn’t until Sébastien’s head popped up over the rocks and he too waved, that he breathed a sigh of relief. It was their signal that all was well and ready on their end, though it was a poor substitute for actually seeing Aramis for himself and knowing that shot hadn’t toppled him yet again.

Shouts of alarm drew his attention down to the valley floor.

Geroux was immediately disoriented. The thick cloud was impossible to navigate and even harder to see through. Pistol in hand, he squinted into the dense smoke. This was madness. He could not tell friend from foe in all this mess.

Someone bumped into him and he spun. This close he recognized one of his men, nearly too late as he brought his weapon to bear. “It’s me, you idiot!” he growled, batting the pistol to point away from him.

“Geroux, what do we do? I…” he looked around, eyes wide. “I cannot tell where we came in and how we get out.”

“This is by design,” Geroux mumbled. “Keep your head and we’ll be fine.”

“No, it’s a curse. This is a curse. God is punishing us for our misdeeds.” The man’s eyes suddenly went wide and he pointed at something behind Geroux. “There! It’s the musketeer!”

Too late to stop him, Geroux watched in morbid curiosity as his companion raised his pistol and fired, knowing that there was as much chance of the ball hitting a Musketeer or one of his own men.

Sébastien stood near the stone outcropping just outside the cave, eyes locked on the battlefield below.

Flashes of light cut through the thick smoke, echoes of weapons fire followed by shouts of pain and then arguing. Not far to the side of the trail, watching from the cover of a tree, Athos also waited. The lad had long ago lost sight of the larger musketeer on the other side of the trail, but when a new stream of smoke rose from the final pile, he breathed a sigh of relief.

The seeds of doubt had been well planted. Then, before their pursuers could decide to fight or flee, their sight had been taken from them, making them fear what they could not be certain of. All this and they’d not had to fire a shot.

It was all working just as they’d hoped. No, better than they’d hoped.

“What’s going on?” Aramis called from just inside the cave.

“I- I think they’re shooting at each other!” Sébastien said breathlessly, his eyes wide with excitement. “They are unable to see who it is that attacks. And so…”

“They attack one another.” Aramis finished and smiled. “Frightened men make poor decisions.”

Sébastien’s brow furrowed. “Athos anticipated this?”

Aramis smiled. “He the best at understanding and playing on a man’s weaknesses.” The boy smiled in understanding before the marksman’s eyes clouded with concern. “Speaking of which, what of Athos and Porthos? Can you see them?”

The lad returned his gaze to the melee below. “Athos is in position and…” he scanned the opposite hill and he caught sight of him just as he’d been about to give up. “Porthos is… I don’t know. I can’t see for the smoke.”

Aramis did not like the sound of that and his face grew grim. Without comment, he grabbed hold of the cave wall and began to lever himself up, the motion making his determined face immediately pale.

Sébastien turned to watch the musketeer gain his feet, slowly, using the wall of the cave to aid in his climb. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“It is time…” he panted, “we got into position.”

The Musketeer wavered and as Sébastien hastened to go to his side, Aramis held out one hand to stay the boy’s movement.

“No…” he whispered, a bracing hand on the side of the cave wall. “Stay where you are and keep an eye out on things below.”

Sébastien nodded and did as he was instructed, but cast side glances at the Musketeer as he rose from his resting position. It was clearly a painful journey as he used both hands to grasp the cave wall not only for support but to use the notches in the stone as a handhold to pull himself up.

Biting his lower lip, he searched his mind for an excuse to return to his side and help…

“Shouldn’t I check the weapons?”

“I believe,” Aramis panted, leaning into the wall, hunched over, “we are prepared in that aspect.” He looked over at the two muskets leaning up against the cave wall, and the pistols. “Those have been checked and rechecked and the one I fired earlier, reloaded.”

Sébastien watched as the marksman positioned just inside the entrance. It was the spot they’d relegated him to earlier when they’d been searching for angles from which he could shoot, and maintain some kind of protection near the cave, if a hasty retreat proved necessary.

Still, Aramis had done his fair share of grumbling earlier when he’d been relegated to this one location from which to shoot. It was just inside the cave and the only portion of it where the topography offered even a limited view of the valley floor.

It was the same spot from which he’d shot that man who’d been ready to shoot Porthos earlier. It had been a thing of wonder. Even straight away, that shot would have proved more than difficult, but it appeared Porthos and Athos had not overstated this man’s skill with powder and shot. Sebastien was duly impressed.

The volume below rose suddenly and Sébastien jumped as several men poured from the smoke, some with swords drawn, others with pistols. Athos launched at the two nearest his side of the trail, and Porthos jumped from a rock, tackling three to the ground.

“That sounds close.”

Aramis’ voice sounded strained and the lad turned to look at the injured man. He was on his feet, steadier than he’d looked in hours, musket in hand, his intent clear.

“Come back this way,” Aramis called to him, ushering him over with one hand, his eyes darting back to the gaze at the valley floor. “Remember, once I fire—”

“Hand you another and reload,” the lad finished as he stepped over to where their loaded muskets waited just behind the Musketeer. “I remember.”

Sébastien looked down at the fancy pistol and ran his fingers over the ornate scrolling on the sides. It was the fanciest firearm he’d ever seen. Probably shot far better than his old blunderbuss back at the village.

“Good lad.” Aramis’ back straightened and his shoulders tensed.

“What is it?” Sébastien made to move forward, to get a better look when the musketeer’s arm shot out to stop him.

“Stay back.”

“I can shoot too, you know,” he whined.

“I’m sure of it.” Aramis glanced at him sidelong and sighed internally. “But can you kill and live with yourself after? To be plagued with the memories and consequences of your actions… with the nightmares?”

Sébastien lowered his head a moment then stared at Aramis thoughtfully. “Do you have nightmares?”

Aramis’ gaze shifted, his eyes clouding over before he nodded solemnly. “We all do … but I was fortunate enough to be much older before taking up arms against another.” He looked pointedly at the lad. “And my friends and I are here to make sure you and others like you are afforded the same chance.”

The clatter outside the cave got even louder and Aramis jerked around to gaze at the path below. “Ah,” he hissed, the sound excited and his stance immediately tense as he brought the first musket to bear, “there we are…”

Sébastien rose on his toes, trying to see over him. “What?”

It didn’t go quite to plan, Athos thought as he stood there, anxiously trying to catch a glimpse of Porthos through the thick smoke.

Not having to face the Marquis in order to taunt them into the trap, Athos had been well at work lighting the first of the four fires on his side of the trail; Porthos had gotten a later start. That part at least, had been part of the plan. What he hadn’t counted on was Porthos’ having trouble getting his last two fires started and how quickly the smoke would fill in the low ground.

After lighting his final fire, Porthos was to come back across and together they were to take them on side-by-side, keeping the Marquis and his men from getting up behind them and anywhere near the cave. If and when things got too hot, they could retreat to the cave and finish this there.

Instead, he was here and Porthos was across the trail. The only remedy was for Porthos to wade through the thick smoke and panicked men but he was too smart for that. Or so Athos hoped.

Now it was chaos. Athos on one side, Porthos on the other, both listening to the Marquis’ men as they charged down the trail and into the blinding cloud of smoke.  Men cried out, swearing, the hissing of blades being drawn lending to the white mist an eerie sound echoing through the cloud. All they could do was wait and pray that the wind would not change direction. Swords in hand, palms sweating, wondering if this would be the day they died…

Athos knew Porthos would try to draw as many of them as he could to his side of the trail, do what he could until he could come and join forces with Athos. And so he waited. Hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

It was the first stray shot that sent them ducking for cover and the moment all hell broke loose.

Moments later, they came spilling out of the cloud of smoke like a swarm of angry bees.

Many were too blinded by the smoke to pose much of a threat. They cleared the cloud and dropped to their knees, coughing, hands wiping furiously at burning eyes. Athos couldn’t very well shoot them where they sat, could he? It wasn’t a manner of honor really, it was a matter of numbers, because while he could take out two or so, the clean air would soon clear the heads of the others and they would attack, over run him.

Though in hindsight, they would do that anyway. So instead, he just held on to faith that Aramis would keep them at bay from above.

Yes. The bees were indeed angry.

Athos slashed at the first, shoved the second as he stumbled past, and stabbed the third. He barely managed to remove his blade when two more moved in to attack.

The percussive sound of a single shot arrived seconds after one attacker arrived. The man shouted out in pain, arms thrown high, falling to the brush-filled ground, dead.

Men near their fallen comrade stared wide-eyed for a moment, uncertainty and superstition giving them pause. Athos merely grinned at them, his face covered in blood, sweat and dirt as he charged.

Somewhere on the other side of the trail, a familiar berserker’s shout of battle filled the air as Porthos joined the fray. Another shot rang out. Once more the quiet exploded with the clanging of swords and cries of rage and battle.

Aramis took aim and fired. Another man, this one sneaking up behind Porthos, dropped to the ground wounded, clutching his leg.

The marksman grinned and handed the musket back to Sébastien, his eyes never leaving the field of battle. The warm wood of the barrel left his hand but his palm didn’t have the chance to cool before its replacement, primed and loaded, filled it once more.

They’d become quite the team. Not once had he needed to rush the boy or take his eye off the battle. After each shot, he merely pressed the weapon back, its replacement in his hand a heartbeat later. With his eyes and mind on the fight below, his next target was already well in sight before he brought the arquebus to bear once more and fired.

With Porthos taken care of for the moment, he returned his gaze to Athos' position and froze.

"Shit."

He couldn’t see Athos. The marksman scanned the terrain where he last saw him but there were too many trees and the thick smoke drifted into the brush. Aramis ground his teeth in frustration and moved deliberately out of the cave, arquebus still raised.

"Where are you going?"

Concerned and focused, any weakness was long forgotten and the boy's words lost amidst his determination. If the lad said more, he didn't hear. Didn't care. He moved quickly up to the outcropping of rocks, the same vantage point from where he’d shot the Marquis’ scout hours before. And not a moment too soon. Or too late.

Athos was backed against a tree, slashing at four men who were ready to slice him to ribbons. His face red from exertion, his movements frantic and too far divided amongst his foe.

"Be ready with that next weapon," Aramis called over one shoulder but didn’t take his eye off the first target. Didn't look back to see if Sébastien had recovered from his surprise to follow. Didn’t worry if the boy would be ready for him. He just got into position and fired.

It was almost instant. Before the man drop to the ground dead, Aramis dropped the expelled weapon and snapped his arm out expectantly, his gaze locked in on the second target.

He’d not had to wait much before the familiar weight of another musket filled his open palm and he jerked it back up, sighted and fired again. The arquebus kicked and for the first time since the battle had begun, his side rebelled. The second man went down in a shout of pain—or perhaps it was Aramis who shouted in pain.

The pain in his side burned like fire and he tilted forward, weapon falling from his hands. The rocks keep him from hitting the ground as he pressed his left hand to the nearest of the tall boulders.

“Aramis…?”

The marksman blinked back his hazy vision, the fighting below swimming back into focus. A more manageable crowd at his mercy, Athos pressed the remaining foe back with every ounce of skill he possessed, once more taking it to them. Safe for now.

Aramis looked across the trail, relieved to see Porthos, too, had his attackers well in hand. He could take a breath now. Thank God.

“A-Aramis…?” Sébastien whispered anxiously.

“I’m fine. I just,” Aramis exhaled, his left hand covering his wounded side as he lowered his head to the stone. “J-just need a moment.”

“N-no. I-I think,” he stuttered, fear dripping from every word as he lay a hand on the marksman. “W-we have a- a problem...”

The trembling that had over taken the boy’s words and limbs slowly seeped into Aramis’ awareness. With effort, the marksman dragged his head around to gaze at the boy, who he realized was not looking at him, but at the trail leading to the cave.

He tilted his head to one side, listening. And froze.

The sound of approaching footsteps, shouts of unfamiliar voices soon bled through the roaring in his ears; the direction all too evident. He realized now that fear for his well-being was far from Sébastien’s immediate concern.

They’d been found.

 

 

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is truly the last cliff-hanger. I promise. See, after this one, only two more chapters remain and I shall leave our boys in peace. Until next time. :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Go,” he said, tossing Porthos his other loaded pistol. “Get to Aramis and the boy.” His stance was rooted, solid and unmoving. “Find them and get them to safety.” 
> 
> There was no need to put the rest of his thoughts into words, the hardest part they were both keenly aware of. The goodbye. Athos would remain behind to make certain Porthos had a chance to get to the others. A chance to save them. A chance he would likely not have for himself. And if he were overrun, so be it.

**Chapter 12**

“Athos!”

A familiar voice called just as the swordsman pulled his blade from yet another assailant. Breathing hard he turned to glimpse Porthos on the other side of the trail, gesturing emphatically before having to engage another opponent. Athos twisted to look up and behind him. The sight instantly filled him with dread.

Several of the Marquis’ men had gotten around and behind him, and were charging up the slope. He quickly discounted their route is merely an effort to escape the suffocating, blinding smoke as none seemed particularly interested in engaging him. No, they were heading up the slope with a well-planned, predetermined intent - to reach the path to the cave.

And to find Aramis and Sébastien

Athos moved quickly to his next attacker, fighting back a sense of panic with intense focus. After a quick parry and a singular thrust between the ribs of another foe, he took off at a run, legs driving up the incline to cut off the advancing men before they could get to their injured friend. The fact that there were too many for him to stop alone never once crossed his mind, he just kept moving.

The swordsman caught up to one man, grabbing his collar and spinning him around to fight. The mercenary quickly recovered from his surprise and slashed at the Musketeer. The blade sang harmlessly overhead as Athos ducked and drove his sword into the man’s gut. He pulled his rapier free just in time to hear a familiar roar of fury close behind him.

Athos spun, dropping to a fighting stance, only to see Porthos driving through five men who’d attempted to attack the Musketeer from behind. He waited and watched, more to make certain none of the men would move past him than to assist.

Porthos never ceased to amaze him. Of the five, only three remained. He side-stepped the thrust of the nearest foe before knocking the man over the head. So sure of his strength, he did not wait to see the man crumple to the ground but met the more coordinated attack of the final two. Rapier in his right hand, he ducked their duel thrusts, dropping to one knee while pulling his main gauche with his left and driving it into their midsections. Porthos jerked the blades free and stood, nodding at Athos to continue while the men fell to the ground dead. They were more on the move, this time, together.

Athos caught up to another, lowered his shoulder, collided with his back, sending the man sprawling. Having heard his cohort go down, the man who’d been a few steps ahead, turned and engaged the Musketeer; the swordsman made quick work of him but it was not a killing blow. This time when his opponent went down, his body rolled against him, down the slope. Unable to get out of the way fast enough, their feet became entangled and Athos went down as well.

His body finally rolled to a stop and before the remaining attackers could take advantage of his weakened position, a shot rang out and the nearest man dropped. Athos looked up; Porthos stood above him, a hand extended to pull him up, his other holding a pistol, smoke still billowing from the firing pan.

“C’mon,” Athos exhaled, there will be plenty of time for gratitude later. “We’ve got to stop them from getting to Aramis and the boy.”

The men barreled toward them down the path and into the clearing, their faces contorted with rage.

One of them, teeth snarling, eyes spitting venom, lifted his pistol in one smooth motion and fired as he ran forward.

Aramis flinched slightly at the feel of something striking his face, but there was little time to realize the man’s poor aim had sent the shot wild, exchanging its intended target for a tree, and the bite of lead for shattered tree bark. And less time still to make a grab for one of the loaded weapons next to Sébastien.

So Aramis’ hands closed around the barrel of his spent musket and in one smooth motion he swung it around like a club. The stalk collided with the nearest attacker’s forehead, the mercenary’s face exploding in a spectacular crunch of bone and torn flesh, blood spraying from the head wound as he fell to the ground.

Another shot rang out and the man following him dropped immediately. Aramis had only a second to look at Sebastien; pistol in his hand, smoke rising from the expelled powder, but not a moment more. The sounds of unfamiliar voices on the path told him all he needed to know. They’d soon have more company.

There was no time to retreat to the cave. And it would do them no good besides.  They had no choice but to leave, but with the path clearly overrun, that was no choice at all.

Aramis staggered back, his side throbbing angrily, until his hand connected with the large stone. He leaned against the rock, palm flat, trying to think. Pain and panic left his mind muddled. Not for himself but for Sébastien, he had to think of something. Some way to—his hand slipped and he barely caught himself from falling over the side. Instead he stared down at the steep incline and the trail below, where his brothers fought. Where the smoke still obscured much of the field…

And he had an idea.

One he was sure his young friend would balk at…

“More are coming…” Sébastien’s quivering voice cut through his thoughts and Aramis turned to the boy.

“Time to leave then,” Aramis panted, glancing once more at the incline they were about to descend. “This won’t be so bad,” he grunted. And with no small difficulty, he began climbing, up and over the rock, grunting at the pull to his side and across his shoulder until he was on the small piece of earth on the other side, a shelf of dirt no wider than his hand, just before it dropped. There he remained as close to the boulder as he could to keep from falling.

“Won’t… won’t be so bad? No! I can’t!”

“We can’t stay here, Sébastien” he explained. “And we can’t get down the path, so, we _have_ to climb down,” Aramis then canted his head, motioning for Sébastien to follow. “It is the only way.”

Beyond reluctant, Sébastien was terrified. He looked from Aramis to the path, and back again.

Aramis couldn’t blame him. Not overly fond of heights himself, they really had no choice. In addition to the height they were about to descend, they were about to exchange one battle for another. One where they would likely be forced to engage the enemy on more intimate terms. One in which he hoped to find his brothers and find help.

“Sébastien!” Aramis hissed urgently. The boy jumped, his entire body trembling. “I will not let anything happen to you. Trust me.”

After another quick glance behind him, he swallowed and moved on wooden legs toward the Musketeer.

Porthos tightened his grip and threw a punch. The impact of the knuckle guard left his opponent dazed long enough for the Musketeer to slash him with his main gauche. Before the man hit the ground, Porthos threw the dagger, steel flying through the air to hit another in the throat. He turned and left before the man had a chance to fall down dead. There was no time to revel in his successes because Athos needed him.

Intent on reaching the cave, and without the cover of smoke, they’d had to take on the large contingent of men more openly. Exposing to them just how badly they were outnumbered, and how horribly they’d been duped.

The three men bearing down on the former comte were rudely surprised when the larger Musketeer moved up behind them. He grabbed the two closest by the collar and smashed their heads together. Their skulls collided with a sickening crunch before they dropped to the ground.

Surprised to find himself the one out numbered, the third mercenary dropped his sword and followed it down to land on his knees. He looked beseechingly from Porthos to Athos. “Please messieurs. Spare me.”

“What do you think, Athos?” Porthos lay the tip of his rapier beneath the man’s throat. “Shall we let this one go?” He moved around to stand next to Athos, his sword never once lowered.

Athos sighed and looked up the hill with longing then back at the man. “We’ve no time for this. Kill him and be done with it.”

Porthos’ grin was a dark and terrible thing. He pressed his sword closer while Athos turned to continue up the hill.

“W-Wait!”

Athos sighed and turned only half way around, clearly only half way interested in what the man had to say.

“You can’t kill me!” He looked from Athos to Porthos and back. “It’d be murder. You’re the King’s men. They don’t murder.” He finished and seemed to want to add more, his mouth opening and closing but no words came out. Perhaps they were prayers…

“What the King doesn’t know...,” Porthos growled and made ready to swipe the blade across his throat.

“Wait!” Athos shouted crisply; Porthos stilled before turning to look at his leader. “He’s right,” he sighed, moving over to take their captive from Porthos’ clutches. One hand grabbing his arm in a bruising grip, pulled him in close. “Go. But if you pick up a sword against me or mine again,” he leaned in to the man’s face. “I will _not_ be so charitable.” He gave the man a pointed look.

The man gave a quick nod and Athos released him. The warning was well received; the now former mercenary spun on his heels, moved cautiously around Porthos, before running hurriedly down the incline to the main path.

Athos did not give the man a second look. Instead he turned and continued up the hill until he reached the path, Porthos close behind. The sounds of shouting up ahead left his heart pounding wildly in his chest as the ran down the path, the cave looming ahead. He only prayed they were not too late.

They entered the clearing and skittered to a halt. Two dead bodies lay unmoving in the dirt but a quick glance was enough to tell them neither bore the familiar faces of Sébastien or Aramis. Hearing the voices in the cave, they turned and immediately ran for the entrance. The five mercenaries inside put up a fight before three fled, the fourth died at the tip of Porthos sword and the fifth backed out of the cave, Athos slashing at him, advancing with lethal force until the man was disarmed and stared back at him defiantly.   

Athos walked intently toward the man, rapier extended, seemingly ready to run him through until the Marquis’ man backed into the large boulder just this side of the steep hill. The Musketeer pressed in further until his opponent was bent back over the stone to get out of reach of the sword tip.

Porthos came running out of the cave. “They’re not in there.”

Athos pressed his sword until the tip drew blood and watched with little care as a fat red drop ran down the man’s neck.  “Where are they?”

Sébastien felt the Musketeer shudder as they reached the bottom.

“Okay…” Aramis said through gritted teeth. “It’s… s-safe.”

Moving carefully, the lad climbed off his back, mindful of where he placed his feet in an attempt not to cause the man further pain. Despite his best efforts, he did not succeed.  It was evident in the way Aramis’ body jerked and the inability to stifle the groan as Sébastien finally stood with both feet on the ground, and more so when the Musketeer seemed disinclined to move.

Sébastien stood off to one side, allowing the Musketeer time and space to gather himself. Inside, however, he chastised himself. He’d been weak and scared during their escape and his fear had cost the Musketeer a great deal.

Midway during their descent, their journey had taken a harrowing turn, particularly for Sébastien. The ground beneath his tiny hands had become too soft and unpredictable; every vine, branch and root the boy grabbed hold of seemed to slip from the earth, each time threatening to send him plunging to his death.

A few steps to his side, the section Aramis travailed, had held better, the way sturdier and steadier for his greater weight so he’d beckoned Sebastien to come closer, instructing him to follow in his wake. However, that in and of itself had proved no small task; the close brush with an uncontrolled fall had left the boy too shaken, his limbs tremulous and Aramis feared the stress and strain would rob the boy’s muscles of their strength. So to give him calm, he had the boy climb over and onto his back and they’d continued their descent.

Determined to make up for his foolishness, Sébastien stuck close to the Musketeer, guarding him while his back was turned, gazing at the thick smoke before them. Most of the fighting, judging by the sound, was well to their left and further up the slope that lead to the cave path, further proving that Aramis’ decision to leave had been the right course of action, despite his condition.

A louder grunt drew the boy’s attention back to the man in question and Sébastien watched as he slowly turned, his hands clinging white knuckled to various vines, branches and roots to support and ease his way. That’s when Sébastien noticed the fresh, dark wet stain on his side and gasped audibly.

Aramis followed his wide eyed stare. “It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“Your wound was burned closed. How is that possible?”

The marksman looked up at the side of the incline they’d only moments ago ascended. “A branch somewhere up there, caught my side; it’s barely a scratch.” He shook his head and looked around. “No matter,” Aramis knelt and kept his voice low, “we’ve more important things to concern ourselves with, such as getting to a less exposed location.”

Sébastien looked around, but for the life of him, he could see nothing that offered refuge. “There’s no place here that’s safe,” he said softly, taking his cue from the Musketeer.

“We’ve got to get to the other side of the trail.”

Sébastien jerked his head around to stare agape at the musketeer. “You can’t mean…”

Aramis nodded. “The fighting is clearly on this side, so it’s safest there. Straight through the smoke is quickest.” He squinted around them. “I have to get back in this fight. I can’t leave my brothers to fend for themselves.”

“B-but we’ve no weapons. No powder or shot. We left all of that up there,” Sébastien whispered urgently. This was madness. They could not get through that smoke. What if someone lurked within, waiting to hurt them? Someone they could not see until it’s too late!

“Yes well, I’m sure we’ll find a few lying about out there,” he said nodding at the clouded trail as he pinned the youth with an air of urgency. “First thing we do is grab whatever weapons we can find; pistols and muskets foremost.” He looked at the boy questioningly. “I assume you know what to look for in the way of shooting supplies?”

Sébastien was staring at him, completely astonished. He nodded mutely. “I… yes.”

“Good,” Aramis nodded. “Then we pick the bodies of any and all powder, shot and wadding kits. We’ll reload once we get to cover on the other side.” He felt at his hip where his sword usually sat, now devoid of his rapier that he’d left in the cave. “And perhaps a sword or dagger.”

“Hold on. You mean— we’re going to rob the dead?”

Aramis stopped and blinked in surprise at the boy. “We’ll give them back once we’re done,” he explained, even if Sébastien remained unconvinced. “More borrowing than stealing, really, if it makes you feel any better.”

The lad winced. “Not really…”

“Well, it’s our only chance of surviving and probably for Athos and Porthos too.” He began unwinding his sash and studied the boy a moment. “Take off your jacket; you’ll need to tie it around your head to cover your mouth. The less smoke we breath in the quieter we’ll be.”

Sébastien was quick to do as he was instructed. The jacket was thin leather but kept him warm enough on the coolest summer evenings. In this case, it proved easy to fold up and make a nice cover to reduce the amount of smoke he’d breath in and keep his hands free to grab weapons.

"When we start moving,” Aramis continued as he tied his sash around his mouth, wincing as the movement pulled at his side, “we go quietly. If you have to speak, keep it down but the less said the better. Use the smoke to our advantage, understand?”

The boy nodded as he finished securing the leather around his head and moved to stand next to Aramis. He glanced up quickly at the Musketeer. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“What?” Aramis looked down questioningly. “We’ve really no choice in the matter—”

“Not about that, about being a Musketeer.” He looked away as Aramis eyes widened hoping he didn’t see how terrified he felt. “Thought I wanted to do what you and your friends do.” He shook his head adamantly. “Not any more..."

Aramis smiled as he moved them closer to the sedentary cloud of smoke. “Probably for the best,” he whispered to the boy. "Because honestly, this is a relatively easy day for a Musketeer."

Athos paced the area outside the cave slowly, staring at the ground, looking for any sign of their friends. The swordsman had gleaned some tricks from the young boy and his tracking skills and confound it all if it didn't seem to make sense as he moved toward the rock. A gouged tree, musket ball still embedded, surrounded by splintered wood. Then his hand trailed down to the boulder, where powder burn marks marred the rocky surface, then the grass beneath it, littered with spilled powder and used wadding.

Porthos, not the most patient of men, stood off to one side and out of the way, hands flinching nervously by his side. “You don’t suppose the Marquis’ men have’m?” he asked when the quiet got to be too much.

“At this point,” Athos knelt to examine the dirt smudges on the boulder. “I’d settle for them being alive.” His gaze shifted to look at the two dead men before returning to the boulder once more.

The smudges in the dirt, he realized, their direction moved away from him and exhaled deeply. Fearful of what he might see, he leaned out and looked over the ledge. Instead of bodies at the bottom, he saw deep grooves in the ground, broken brush, uprooted shrubs, newly turned earth— just like those Sébastien had shown him earlier.  Signs that someone had gone over the edge in a somewhat controlled descent.

“What is it?” Porthos moved to stand next to Athos and looked over the edge, seeing for himself what the swordsman was so intent on. “You’ve found something?”

A terrible thought came to mind, one that told them both that their friend and the boy were in far worse danger than before.

 “Shit.” The bigger man sat back and they shared a look. “You don’t suppose…”

“I’m afraid so, which means we need to hurry.” He tapped Porthos on the shoulder as he brushed past and took off at a run. “Come on!”

“What is with him and steep climbs of a sudden…” he huffed as he turned to catch Athos.

Sébastien swallowed down bile as he cautiously searched the first dead man. The tang of blood around them was a physical thing, hanging in the air and coating their throats as they drew breath, nearly overwhelming as he knelt in dirt that was thick with this man’s blood. This one's entrails practically hung outside his flesh where he’d been slashed and the realization of it made him look away.

Aramis, however, had little compunction. He seemed to do it with ease, turning a lifeless body over, lifting his jacket to get at his powder and shot. And he loaded fast. Without so much as a glance at what he was doing. It was as if he were an extension of the weapon in his hands.

Robbing the dead, however. Sébastien shivered. Nothing good would come of it for they’d surely be cursed.

And perhaps there for a while Aramis only _seemed_ unaffected by their scavenging, now, however, he didn’t look steady at all. His hands shook as he tucked the weapon into his belt and they were coated with something shiny and Sébastien couldn’t tell if it was the blood from his new wound, or that of the dead. Though he feared it was the former. And flushed. His skin seemed too close in pallor to that of the lifeless man he picked over for shot and powder, save for the bright red spots high on his cheeks.

No, Sébastien thought as he shook his head This was a bad omen. Truly. They were cursed.

Then something clamped down on his wrist and he could not help the cry of surprise that escaped his lips.

The not-so-dead man had his hand around his wrist. His eyes were big and angry and spittle, mixed with blood, that ran from his mouth where his teeth seemed clenched in rage and pure agony.

Sébastien pulled but it was no use. The death grip on his wrist was inescapable. For a dead man, this one seemed determined to make him pay for robbing him of his weapons. Too late he realized he should have started with his swords because in the dead-man’s free hand, a blade was arcing toward the Sébastien, ready to split his skull.

Another blade appeared out of nowhere and blocked the path of the descending sword. Steel clanged and Sébastien realized suddenly that he wasn’t dead. He looked up to find Aramis there, a blade he’d confiscated keeping the other at bay.

“Get back, Sébastien,” Aramis growled through gritted teeth and for the first time, Sébastien realized his attacker no longer had hold of his hand. Instead, the mercenary had both hands on the hilt of his sword to ward off the Musketeer.

Dropping back, Sébastien scrambled away from the two men, crawling on hands and knees as fast as he could. And he didn’t stop. His eyes filled with smoke and something more blinding; fear and panic.

Cursed. This was proof. The dead would rise and reclaim what was theirs. And they would punish those who tried to take from them. And he would be next. This was just the beginning.

He glanced back over his shoulder and spared but a fleeting concern for the wellbeing of the Musketeer. It was no use. He could no longer see him, his form swallowed in the thick cloud of smoke, but they did not mute the sounds of men grunting, steel clanging and shots ringing in the distance.

Not distant enough, he realized frantically.

Driven by terror he jumped to his feet and kept moving, legs churning, heart hammering, eyes burning from the smoke, vision blurred by unshed tears. He had to get out, to where he could breathe, where he could see.  He’d get out of this hell and go back to his barn, his horses his friends—

Something caught his foot and the clouded world he’d been desperately trying to escape, suddenly tilted and twirled around him as he fell down. The ground tore at his sides, his shoulders, neck, head, elbows, arms before he rolled to a stop and lay flat on his back, panting.

“You can’t do this.”

“Of course I can.”

Sébastien knew that voice. He rolled over slowly and peered through the edges of the smoke; it was thinner there and he began to crawl closer, through the grass until the men came into full view. There he moved to kneel, watching where Geroux stood in a clearing at the back of the trail, a pistol aimed at the Marquis.

“You’re a coward,” Geroux sneered. “You used me, my men. You sent them into battle to die and then you belly crawl away thinking you’d get to live.” He drew back the hammer the metallic click sending shivers up the boy’s spine.

“I— I’m a nobleman.”

“Not for long. Soon you’ll be a dead man. When you’re dead, status means nothing.” He raised the pistol and took aim.

“W-wait!” d’Évreux held his hands out, arms extended, palms out. “I can pay you. More than you’d ever dreamt.”

Geroux huffed. “I believe one of my men, who is now dead thanks to your pride, put it best: Money’s no good if you’re too dead to spend it. Those Musketeers will make it back to Paris and once the King finds out you’re not the real Marquis—”

“I _am_ the Marquis,” the nobleman shouted. “I am of noble blood… it was not my fault my brother was born first.”

“So once your brother was off galavantin’ ‘round, you killed your father, and planned to do the same at Le Havre when your brother returned to port,” Geroux hissed, taking a predatory step toward the cowering man. “Yes, yes, I know your sob story.”

“Naturally you do, since it was your idea. It only failed due to your incompetence.”

“Yeah,” Geroux nodded before shrugging, “and it was a good gig while it lasted. But I won’t swing because your blood makes you somehow less to blame.” He raised the pistol and took aim, theatrics meant clearly to make the other man aware of his fate.

“No... ” the Marquis held out his hands, beginning to beg. “No- please. It’s not too late. We can go back to the estate, sell everything, take what’s left and leave.”

“I’ve taken about as much from the likes of you as I care to,” Geroux sneered and unceremoniously pulled the trigger. Powder ignited and the Marquis’ head snapped back before he fell to the ground. Sightless eyes staring up at the sky.

Sébastien didn’t remember when he’d gotten to his fee but he was already backing up, eyes locked on Geroux who had yet to see him, legs ready to spin around and run. Then a twig snapped beneath his foot. He froze instantly. Shoulders hunched, he cringed as Geroux pivoted and pulled another pistol from his belt.

“Don’t move,” the Geroux ordered, squinting at him, studying him. “You’re that boy from the village…” he realized. He moved toward him, his eyes still slits as if still trying to piece this together, stopping when he drew to within a few feet. “What’er you doin’ here, eh?” he asked, suspicion edging his voice.

Porthos just finished taking out three men when the ground shook beneath his feet. Athos felt it too and they both looked around. They knew the sound of approaching horses when they heard it.

“It is coming from that way,” Athos motioned.

Porthos nodded and met Athos’ gaze. “More of the Marquis’ men?”

Athos sighed, the implications of what that meant clear in his eyes. With still a number of their opponents rushing down the hill to meet them, and more riding in, the battle was lost. “We can only assume so.”

“Go,” he said, tossing Porthos his other loaded pistol. “Get to Aramis and the boy.” His stance was rooted, solid and unmoving. “Find them and get them to safety.”

There was no need to put the rest of his thoughts into words, the hardest part they were both keenly aware of. The goodbye. Athos would remain behind to make certain Porthos had a chance to get to the others. A chance to save them. A chance he would likely not have for himself. And if he were overrun, so be it.

Porthos took a deep breath. He gave a quick glance up the trail, then once more to Athos. He gave a quick nod to his friend, watching as Athos unsheathed his sword with his free hand before turning to face what could only be certain death. Alone.

In his heart, Athos ached for what he was forcing Porthos to do. To leave a brother behind was one of the hardest things he could ask of any Musketeer, and yet, it was their only option. As for himself, Athos could only pray to a God he did not believe in, to allow him life long enough to do his duty and to make certain that Porthos followed orders and did not think to return to aid him.

For only then, would Athos know his sacrifice had not been in vain. Not if the others were to live on.

The sound of Porthos’ footfalls fading behind him was all the assurance he needed to know he was well and truly alone now. And when the first shouts of battle reached him, he took a deep breath, holding his sword tighter, knees braced, ready to meet his opponents.

The sound reached him first; there had to be dozens, rounding the bend in the trail, running ahead of the riders, shouting, eager for battle. Remnants of the earlier battle, reformed, attacking on foot. Foot soldiers ahead of cavalry. A tactic he was well familiar with. As more came into view, barreling toward him, their weapons high, faces contorted with…

Athos blinked, not quite trusting his sight.

It wasn’t rage that contorted their faces. It was… fear. Panic.

It wasn’t a rush to battle but a frenzied retreat. Battle cry’s melting into shouts of dismay and distress. Men twisting to glimpse a foe behind them.

They were being chased. Not looking ahead, but fearing what followed.

Athos canted his head in wonder but did not lower his weapon. When the stampeding horde reached him at last he gripped his sword, not trusting their intent, and awaited that first blow, the first clash of steel, but instead, none engaged. Instead, men rushed past on either side, moving through him as if he were little more than a specter.

The swordsman twisted right, then left, ready to engage, but none seemed willing. Until they were past and he stood there, watching them. Completely flummoxed.

The thunder of hooves shook the soil beneath his boots and he turned again. The first horse came into view. He blinked, not sure if he should laugh or cry at the familiar face that greeted him.

Sébastien couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted to. His voice was as frozen in terror as the rest of him. He could feel himself trembling hard enough to jerk and tug at his vision while the brute who’d once done the bidding of the Marquis made demands of him, untethered and unbound to anyone other than his own need for revenge.

He looked from Geroux to where the Marquis lay on the ground, dead. Alone and defenseless, his lower lip started to tremble and he cursed himself for being as weak as he felt.

“Hey!” the red haired man shouted. “I’m talkin’ to you!”

Sébastien felt his breath seize in his chest. But he pushed back against his fear and this time got his mouth to open, though nothing came out.

“Wait,” Geroux stared at the boy as if he were a puzzle. “I know you. You’re… the tavern keeper’s brat.” His face went from stormy to calculating as he drew to within a few feet of the lad before stopping. “What are you doing here?”

Sébastien swallowed. It was that face, that devious, shrewd face that scared the boy most. But determined not to stay silent, he drew a breath and found his voice. “You hurt m-my uncle, my friends…” Sébastien he said, backing away two steps.

“Ah, so you tracked me out here, thinkin’ t’ get even, that it?” Then Geroux glanced at the smoky battlefield, his shrewd mind working and Sébastien saw the dreadful moment when he put it all together. “No…” he said, voice low and on the verge of discovery. “You tracked for _them_.” He thumbed back the hammer on the second pistol and pointed it at him.

“They’ll hang you for murder!” Sébastien blurted out. He wasn’t about to beg for his life.

“Well, they can only hang me once.” He sighted down the barrel. “Who knows, maybe I’ll see you in Hell.”

Eyes wide, Sébastien’s mouth opened, ready to scream—

Something whistled by, slicing through the air, inches away from the boy’s face, only to materialize in the form of a dagger imbedded in Geroux’s right shoulder. The impacted spun the big man around, forcing him to drop the pistol with a shout of pain.

Sébastien looked behind him from where the blade came, just in time to see Aramis stagger out of the smoke and drop to his knees, right hand clutching his side. He would not misuse his second chance and ran to the Musketeer, determined not to abandon him this time.

“Aramis…” he said dropping to his knees in front of the wounded Musketeer, but unsure where to touch.

Aramis sat back on his heels, never once taking his eyes off Geroux. “I’m alright...” he panted. His eyes suddenly narrowed and he struggled to his feet. Grabbing Sébastien, he pulled the boy to one side. “Get behind me. Now!”

The alarm with which he spoke unnerved him and Sébastien practically leapt to do as he was told. Shielded in the relative safety of the soldier’s solid form, his curiosity would not be denied as he peered around only to gasp in surprise. He watched in horror as Geroux pulled the dagger from his shoulder, a maniacal gleam in his eye.

“Good try,” Geroux snarled, “but ‘tis surprisingly hard to kill a man who’s already dead. You see,” he used the bloodied dagger to point at the smoke filled trail. “I died in there…with my men.” He flipped the dagger carelessly into the dirt and slowly drew his sword. “But it is satisfying for me to know you’ll be joining them soon...”

“Fine.” Aramis nodded and drew up tall, his right hand dropping from his wound to the hilt of borrowed sword in his sheath. “This is between you and me, Geroux,” he drew the long blade, his body swaying with the effort to stay on his feet. “Let the boy leave and I may be lenient.”

Geroux laughed. “You’re in no position —or condition— to tell me what to do.” He stepped right a few paces before dropping into a crouch. “I’ll step over your corpse and deal with the boy as I please.”

Keeping his eyes on his opponent, Aramis turned his head to one side, and spoke quietly to Sébastien. “When I wade in,” he began, his voice even and low, “you run. Find Athos and Porthos.”

Sébastien didn’t get a chance to speak. Didn’t get a chance to nod. Geroux took advantage of the Musketeer’s inattentiveness and charged headlong. For such a big man, he was fast and Sébastien barely had enough time to get out of the way as steel collided, ringing out in the waning light of day.

Aramis narrowly managed to deflect Geroux’s initial lunge. Didn’t matter, because after that, the bigger man hacked at him mercilessly, driving the Musketeer backward, wearing him down. It was all the marksman could do to counter his strike but it was clear it would not last long. In his weakened condition, he was faltering, fading.

Sébastien backed up. Transfixed. Conflicted. Part of him knew he could do nothing here, that he should do as Aramis had instructed. Run. Get help. But another part argued he could not leave the Musketeer alone. Not again. Not knowing that turning his back now would mean this was the last time he would see such a brave soldier alive.

No. He had to help Aramis. He had to at least try.

He searched around him on the ground frantically for anything he could use as a weapon. Eyes scanning the grass and dirt, the sound of Aramis panting in exertion— and he found it. A large rock. He grabbed the stone and got as close as he dared, careful of their flailing swords, and aimed for Geroux’s head. He drew back and threw as best he could.

The impact to the larger man’s upper back caused him to cry out in pain. Back arched, he stumbled back and it was enough for Aramis to rally. The Musketeer slashed at his opponent’s face, the blade moving so fast for a moment Sébastien thought it had missed, until blood streamed down from Geroux’s cheek.

Geroux staggered back and he stopped, but only long enough to swipe at the cut and glare at the blood coating his fingers. His face darkened, he gave a roar of fury and charged in, his efforts redoubled and fueled by unimaginable fury. He hacked at the marksman with power and rage and Aramis’ strength could not hold under its force and brutality.

Too soon the marksman went down in a heap. On his hands and knees, his sword all but forgotten, his chest heaving, Aramis lacked the strength to move.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Geroux growled, stalking around the downed man like a wolf would a wounded deer.

Sébastien felt his heart lurch to his throat as Geroux walked up to the Musketeer, grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head up. Drawing the hand back that still clutched his sword, he struck the Musketeer hard across the mouth, the pommel smashing into his jaw. Aramis head snapped sideways, his entire body practically lifted off the ground until he landed on his back, face up, eyes closed, blood coating his chin and jaw.

“I may not kill all of you,” Geroux growled as he continued to walk around his prey, apparently trying to decide where to hurt him next. “But I will enjoy taking one of you with me.”

Frozen in fear, Sébastien watched wide-eyed and trembling as Geroux drew his leg back and kicked Aramis in the ribs. The marksman grunted as the blow rolled him over to land face down, coughing up spit and blood.

Every voice in Sébastien’s head told him to run but he shook his head against the urgings. He would not just leave Aramis. So he cast about for another weapon, a stick, another stone. Anything. And his eyes caught on the dagger on the ground, the very dagger Geroux had pulled from his own shoulder.

Swallowing back the bile inducing memory, he ran over to the blade and dropped to his knees to grab it. “S-stop there,” he said getting to his feet, waving the blade before him. “L-l-leave us alone or I’ll....”

Geroux stopped and turned, looking from one victim to the other, bloodlust practically dripping from his mouth. Deciding Aramis was not going anywhere, he stalked toward the boy. “Nothing is what you’ll do,” he snarled. Closing the distance between them he drew back his arm, backhanding Sébastien hard across the face.

Pain exploded in his head as the blow spun him around, lifting his feet until he landed in the dirt. He lay there, stunned, ears ringing, vision swimming, gasping in a desperate need to breathe through the shock of agony.

Through the haze, he lifted his head enough to see Geroux coming toward him again, and he tried to gather his wits about him. He had to move. The next blow would surely be his last. There wasn’t time to gain his feet, instead he got to his hands and knees and began to crawl, as fast as his addled senses would let him.  

Another sound, this one loud enough to cut through the bells clambering in his head, pushed aside the pain.

It was unlike any he’d ever heard. Loud enough to push aside the haze. It sounded like an enraged bull. He looked behind him and blinked to clear his sight. Porthos was barreling toward them. Toward Geroux. His face twisted in rage as the world seemed to slow in that moment.

It happened all at once. Geroux spun, too late as Porthos plowed into him. Sébastien scrambled to get out of the way as the Musketeer drove him back, lifting Geroux off the ground, carrying him several feet before slamming him bodily into the hard packed dirt.

Sébastien swore he felt the earth shudder at the impact.

Still, Geroux was a big man, nearly as big as Porthos and the two locked in combat, kicking, punching, lashing out viciously at one another. Blood flowing from various cuts and bruises on each of their faces.

The two giants were locked in combat and all Sébastien could do was watch the men grapple.

“‘Bastien…”

It was more the movement that caught his attention than the sound of his name. Aramis was still face down but his head was up and he was looking pointedly at him, motioning at something. Sébastien glanced once more at the men fighting, they were on the ground again, Porthos had Geroux pinned, big fists smashing into him. Then to where Aramis indicated.

A sword. It sat just to the right. He didn’t hesitate, but keeping a wary eye on the ensuing fight, moved carefully to where the blade sat and crouched, hand wrapping around the hilt. He looked back at Aramis and nodded.

The fight before him intensified as Geroux shoved hard and the Musketeer fell back. Scrambling to his feet, the Marquis’ man lunged to his side and grasped a sword yet unseen, laying in the dirt. He then gained his feet, straightened and watched as Porthos backed off, hands out to his side.

Porthos, weaponless, lifted his head and squared his shoulders, face not yet resigned to his fate.

“This must be my lucky day.” Geroux grinned and sliced at the air, criss crossing his body, as if to test his blade but more to gloat. “I get to kill,” his face darkened as he pointed the sword at Porthos, “two Musketeers instead of one.” He launched from his spot and charged.

“Porthos!” Sébastien shouted and threw the sword.

Porthos caught the blade one handed and lowered the tip as he sidestepped ever so slightly to his left. The movement allowed the charging man’s sword to pass harmlessly by, but Geroux was not so fortunate.

The force of his charge left little room for correction and Porthos’ sword pierced his stomach, his momentum thrusting the blade the rest of the way through, his body not stopping until it reached the rapeir’s grip. He hung there near the hilt of Porthos’ sword, blood bubbling from one side of his mouth.

Porthos leaned in. “You’re not killing any Musketeers, Geroux. Not today. Not ever.”

Sébastien couldn’t watch. He turned his head and noticed Aramis struggling to his feet and rushed to his side. The marksman managed to make it to his knees, then one foot on the ground but unable to do more. The boy smiled at him, grabbing one arm, attempting to draw it over his shoulder, trying to lend whatever aid he could.

“Let me…” Porthos grumbled and Sébastien carefully released him into the larger Musketeer’s hand.

“He’s dead…?” Aramis panted.

Sébastien turned to see, garnering his own confirmation at the statement. It was a gruesome sight. Porthos hadn’t bothered removing his blade, letting it and Geroux fall to the ground, the aftermath a macabre scene of mangled man and steel.

Porthos grunted in reply, lifting his friend carefully to his feet, Aramis’ right arm slung across his shoulder for support. “He won’t bother anyone any longer.”

“You-you’re alright?” Aramis asked, eyeing his friend carefully.

“You’re an idiot.” Porthos shook his head. “I’m covered in blood but none of it’s mine… unlike you.”

The ground seemed to rumble beneath them and Sébastien glanced nervously around. “Someone’s coming.”

The words were barely spoken when the small clearing seemed to erupt in a flurry of activity. Men and horses, too far to see clearly but their approach indicating a large contingent and they were thundering toward them from down the trail. Porthos was ready to usher Aramis out of sight when Athos appeared from the brush, waving as he jogged toward them. He had his pistol in one hand, sword in the other as he advanced, the bloodied tip of his sword showing well-worn use.

“It’s Treville, d’Artagnan and some others,” Athos said breathlessly. Porthos sagged with relief, Aramis too though more from pain and exhaustion.

Porthos squinted at the oncoming riders before his face relaxed. “Thank God.”

Athos eyes raked over their injured friend. “Later you’ll have to explain to me why you disobeyed my orders. But for now,” his brow furrowed as he pointed at the fresh blood on his shirt, “you look to have paid the price for it.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Sébastien intervened. “We were overrun!”

Porthos and Aramis smiled knowingly. It appeared the boy had become quite protective of his new friends. Not immune to the youth’s gallant attempts, Athos could not hide the small grin of his own, though he managed better than his companions.

Athos managed only a slightly stern gaze. “Was that before, or after you left the cave to make a shot you could not have made otherwise?”

“Athos—”

“Save your breath,” the swordsman held up a hand silencing him, “you look to have little enough to spare. Besides, what kind of ungrateful wretch would I be when your disobedience likely saved our lives out there...”

Aramis sagged a bit. “Admit it. Ordering me into that cave was a terrible idea.”

“And scaling that sheer drop in your condition was a good one?” Porthos countered.

“With me on his back,” Sebastien offered.

“What?” Porthos stared at his friend before his head tilted to one side. “Aramis…” he groaned.

“It couldn’t be helped.”

Athos brow furrowed as he really looked at his friend. “You can ill afford to lose more blood, my friend.” He glanced at the red staining one side of his shirt. “Is that serious— wait. Never mind. I forget who I am talking to.”

Aramis blanched momentarily, one hand coming up to cover the newly acquired wound. “It’s _not_ serious,” he countered. “I merely tangled with a root on the climb down, though if it is deep,” he nodded toward the approaching riders and everyone turned. “At least this time we will have the luxury of stitches.”

D’Artagnan had rounded the path and into view, Treville following close behind. The rest of the small contingent soon caught up, the trail too narrow for more than flanking positions, the remainder of their small group of reinforcements, followed in close ranks behind them. To a man, they all held pistols in one hand, the reins of their horses in the other, faces pinched in concern and determination as they thundered toward them.

“Woah… woah, Aramis!” Porthos reached around to bolster their friend. “Athos, little help.”

Athos turned in time to see Aramis crumple, unconscious.

TBC…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... it's not 'technically' a cliffhanger.
> 
> One more chapter to go :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

“I said no!”  

Porthos’ thunderous voice reverberated from upstairs, only this time louder than the last. The force of it sent already tense servants scurrying about in a startled fit. The staff, having already dealt with a tumultuous few months and now the uncertainty of their future, were becoming increasingly leery of their resident Musketeers.

Once more, d'Artagnan raised his head and stared expectantly across the desk at his companion, waiting for Athos to acknowledge they should intervene. Infuriatingly enough, the latter seemed content to ignore the commotion that now dropped back to a less discernable but still heated discussion, and continued staring at the newest letter he'd unearthed from the late Marquis.

“Well...?” d'Artagnan queried. “Athos?”

“Ah,” Athos ignored his partial question, head still bent, maintaining eye contact with the article of correspondence he’d found amongst the Marquis’ things. “It appears the oldest son is scheduled to return soon. Not accounting for any setbacks, his ship will dock in Le Havre sometime around the end of next month.”

In the battle’s aftermath, given the state of his long absent men, the Captain had required no explanation. That was not the time. Instead, orders were issued and the small company of Musketeers he’d brought along had gone to work. While they gathered the living, dealt with their wounds, and assembled the bodies of the dead, the Captain stayed close while the inseparables dealt with their injured and exhausted friends.

Mounts belonging to Geroux and his men were rounded up to be used to transport the prisoners and bodies back to Paris. Treville, trusting his men to handle the tasks efficiently, watched with concern as Aramis was assisted to the cave and his injuries tended, all the while getting detailed information from Athos as to what had transpired.

It was with great relief to them all that Aramis’ earlier assessment regarding his newest injury, had been correct. Well, mostly. The root had left a shallow but lengthy cut along his ribs, but not before gouging his flesh too deep to be ignored. After flushing the puncture with more of the tincture, it required only a simple dressing, the marksman remaining unconscious throughout the procedure.

Even so, by the end of it all, Aramis was in no condition to be bounced around on top of a horse, making their next decision easier. They would remain at the cave to allow him rest, fitful though it had been, and leave only when it was safest for him.

When evening came, Aramis’ next battle raged as the day’s exertions saw the return of his fever. Though not so severe this time, he managed to bear it with levity, sitting quietly off to one side, but determined not to be left out of the joyous reunions, tales of their last forty-eight hours and discussions on what to do next. Having already determined Aramis was in no state to travel as far as Paris, it was also true that the cave was no place for him to recover.

It was Sebastian who offered a solution. The Marquis’ estate was just over a half day's ride and in addition to a soft bed and a full service staff, offered the most important amenity of all; access to a proper physician.

It was impossible to know which word held more appeal; physician or bed, for they were in desperate need of both. So, it was decided that Athos, d’Artagnan and Porthos, along with Sébastien, would accompany their injured brother to the deceased Marquis’ estate where the boy would fetch the doctor to tend their friend.

The next morning saw Treville and the Musketeer contingent quietly breaking camp in the pre-dawn hours, getting everything ready for their return to Paris. The Inseparables worked quietly with the others to see them on their way, Athos talking to Antoine, making arrangements to retrieve their remaining mount from his farm.

Aramis resurfaced sometime before they left, the familiar sounds of horses being saddled and men gathering up their gear calling him back to his senses far too soon. Not wanting to be seen as a hindrance, the injured Musketeer had insisted on riding his own horse, assuring anyone willing to listen that he was well enough to sit his mount. The reality of that overstatement, however, could not have been further from the truth. While Athos had held firm on the shorter ride to the Marquis’ estate, the journey had proved excruciating, both for the marksman and his friends who’d had to watch him suffer. Once at the estate, their friends fever spiked yet higher.

The servants had not been overly enthusiastic at their arrival earlier that day. It had been hard enough to quell their dismay with only the four of them at their door, Athos could well imagine the apoplexy if they’d arrived with Treville and nearly a full company of men.

And in the time since they’d arrived and now, things had not gotten better.

D’Artagnan looked ready to say something when a cavalcade of anxious servants came scurrying down the grand marble staircase and into the foyer. Behind them, a rise of angry voices, chief and loudest among them Porthos’.

Athos raised his eyes to watch them only after the Gascon had turned to look; their flustered faces glanced in the office, pleading for them to do something about their men, but not daring to voice their concerns. Instead, they turned and exited through a sitting room, the heels of their shoes clacking on the tile floor.

Athos sighed internally. He knew he should have insisted on the room on the other end of the hall…

“That’s it,” d’Artagnan set the sheath of papers he’d been reading on the desk and rose. “If you won’t do anything, I will—”

“No,” Athos said with finality. “Sit.” Once the younger man complied, he glanced at him briefly. “I’m certain Porthos and the physician will work this out. Here,” he handed the Gascon another journal. “See if you can find anything on the elder Marquis’ finances.”

As an alternative to standing around idly, or worrying a groove into the hard floor as they awaited the physician’s verdict on Aramis’ condition, Athos had decided to put their time to good use in perusing the Marquis’ papers and ledgers.

D’Artagnan did as he was instructed, his heart most certainly not in it. He remained distracted by the constant scurry and skuttle of servants that passed by the study, glancing in, catching the Gascon’s eye, their faces seemingly saying, _‘Aren’t you going to do something?_ ’ but fearful of expressing it openly.

“But the servants...”

“Have been severely dealt with for the better part of a year under the Marquis’ younger son and Geroux. They are understandably skittish with four soldiers in the house and no master to maintain order, regardless of that master’s treatment of them.”

“But Aramis and Porthos—”

“A little worse for wear but they are upstairs, and with some rest, Aramis should be well enough to travel in a few days’ time and we will all return to Paris.” He glanced at the younger Musketeer. “Do not make trouble where none exists.”

D’Artagnan grinned, slightly. “Oh, I don’t know, the doctor may have bitten off more than he can chew.”

The tense exchange began almost immediately upon the doctor’s arrival. The man was an effete snob and Porthos did not suffer the like even on the best of days. And this was not the best of days. Still, he only glanced at the ceiling above, picked up the book and began leafing through the worn pages.

Having sent Sebastian ahead to find the doctor, they’d managed to get Aramis comfortable before he’d arrived. Porthos had not been pleased to see the black robed, wrinkled faced physician, but for Aramis’ sake, he’d indulged the man. Then things took a drastic turn for the worse.

A loud thud on the floor above their heads made them jump and the voices elevated once more. A door was opened and the words clearly discernable amongst the scuffling and stomping.

“I assure you, monsieur,” the pinched nasally voice of the physician issued back, his high pitched whine echoing down the hall. “This is the common practice—”

“Not while I’m around it ain’t,” Porthos resounded followed by stomping so loud, the impact shook the crystal chandelier that hung above them in the office.

Wonderful, Athos thought. They’d only been at the Marquis’ estate a few hours and already they were antagonizing the locals. A new record, even for them. He pinched the bridge of his nose where the beginnings of a headache set to hammering behind his eyes.

“Please monsieur, you disturb the patient.” More scuffling. “But, but… I am not done yet. I have barely started.”

“We’ll manage. Now, get your blood sucking leeches and get out!”

“If you’ll permit me to show you—” the physician’s plea ended on an ear-piercing shriek.

A loud crash followed by glass shattering finally brought the Musketeers to their feet. Athos sighed and together with d’Artagnan they stood and moved away from the ornate desk and into the foyer, his steps quickening to the beat of his heart. If Porthos had killed the doctor…

“Wh—what have you done?”

“What I should have done before. Now get. Out!”

There was flurry of scuffling and Athos was one step away from vaulting up the stairs when Porthos and the physician appeared at the top landing. The doctor exited the room in which Aramis had been placed, his hair ruffled, what remained of his bag of remedies clutched close to his chest as he scurried to stay away from the larger man’s reach. Porthos, not to be out done, stayed close on the man’s heels.

Athos spared a quick glance at d’Artagnan; the Gascon could barely contain his smile and being discovered by the former comte did little to change that. Still, Athos pinned him with an admonishing stare to which the younger musketeer merely tilted his head, grinned harder and gave a helpless shrug.

“Porthos…” Athos warned evenly, watching them move swiftly down the steps. “Please do not maim the physician.”

The warning did nothing to appease the doctor who gave a panicked shriek, slid down the last half dozen steps, just ahead of the massive musketeer and swung around to hide behind Athos. “Keep him away from me.”

Taking pity on the man, or possibly Athos, d’Artagnan moved to block Porthos further descent, stopping him with a hand on his chest. “I think he’s had enough.”

Porthos looked to argue when the Gascon did a quick double take, his gaze snapping upward. He dropped his hand, took a step back, his attention focused high, brow furrowed. “Aramis…”

All eyes turned to the landing at the top of the stairs. Aramis stood, skin flushed but still better than he’d looked the day before, one hand on his side, covering the fresh bandage that the doctor had at least been able to apply before being soundly ejected from the room.  

“What are you doing out of bed?” Porthos growled as he took the steps two at a time to reach the top landing where Aramis clutched the rail to remain upright. He stared at Aramis, his own face pale with worry. “You should be resting.”

“Porthos, you know I love you, my dear friend,” Aramis panted and for the first time, Athos realized the flush on his cheeks was not from illness but from anger. “But I do not need you fighting my battles for me”

Porthos mouth dropped in surprise. “He wanted to put leeches on you.”

“Do you honestly think I would have allowed that?”

“In your state—”

“In my state?” Aramis drew himself upright and glared at the larger man. “What state is that exactly?”

“Well…” Porthos motioned to him. “Weak, for starters.”

Aramis mouth dropped open before he slammed it shut, teeth clicking together. “Do I look _weak_ to you—never mind that. Where’s my sword?” He turned, once more hunched over to ease the pull on his wound. “I’ll show you weak…” And with that he hobbled into his room, Porthos following.

Athos smirked. Aramis had a way of reining Porthos in that never seemed to fail. He chose that moment to rid themselves of a no longer relevant physician.

“Monsieur,” he turned, regarding the slight man, “it appears your services are no longer of use. I shall show you to the door.”

The doctor made no move to follow, staring agape at the Musketeer as he opened the door and stood expectantly. Whatever sense of shock he felt at the moment soon dissipated as he righted his bag and with as much dignity as he could muster, lifted his chin and scurried to the door.

“It’s just as well,” he sniffed, either unaware or unconcerned that d’Artagnan followed at only a pace behind. “I was, after all brought here under false pretenses.” He stood at the door, glaring at Athos.

“I see,” d’Artagnan said, crossing his arms. “And what false pretenses were those, exactly?” He glanced at Athos who threw him a cautionary gaze. “Were you not told by our young friend that we had an injured man here in need of your services?”

The doctor glanced quickly at Sebastian standing outside by the physician’s carriage. “Well, yes—”

“Are you not a physician sworn to tend the sick and injured?”

“But of course—”

“Is our friend not injured, and suffering illness due to that injury?”

Athos eyes drifted up just as Porthos came stalking out of the bedroom, wiping his hands on a towel. Internally, the former comte let out a sigh, watching Porthos as he moved to the top of the stairs to make his way down, and knowing just when he’d need to intervene to keep this fool doctor from losing a few teeth.

“Yes, but this is the Marquis’ estate. I was told there was someone of great importance here who was in need of my skills, not some common… _soldier_.” The last word was spoken as if his tongue had soured and in that precise moment, all hell broke loose.

Porthos moved faster than a man of his size ought and vaulted down the final four steps. “You saying we’re not good enough for the likes of you?” he shouted and launched at the doctor.

Not at all surprised to find their friend at his back, d’Artagnan turned and caught the big man before he could connect. “Get him out of here Athos,” the Gascon grunted with the effort of containing a very mad bear. “Don’t know how much longer I can hold him…”

Athos was on the move long before d’Artagnan finished. One hand on the doctor’s shoulder, he turned the man and escorted him out.

On the second step, he stopped suddenly.  “My payment.” The doctor turned toward Athos. “It was no small journey here, and that boy!” he jabbed a crooked finger to where Sebastian stood holding the reins to the doctor’s carriage. “He lied to me. I demand he be horsewhipped.”

Athos rolled his eyes and nudged—perhaps harder than he should have—the physician along, the man nearly tumbling to the bottom of the stairs. Before he could fully right himself, Athos grabbed him by his upper arm, lifted him to his feet and propelled him onward until he all but slammed into his carriage door.

“Monsieur,” Athos began before the man could complain further. “That door and my other friend in there holding back a very angry man are all that stand between you and what would most certainly seem far worse than a long journey and a boy who was less than truthful.”

When the doctor seemed at a loss—thankfully—Athos quietly stepped back and opened the carriage door and waved a hand to bid him enter. Rather than take his eye off the Musketeer, the physician slid his back along the carriage until he reached the opening then backed up the step, stumbling a bit before landing on the seat inside.

“Now,” Athos whispered as he closed the carriage door, “I suggest you return to your home and be thankful I did not turn my angry friend loose on you, or decide to do the honors myself. Because I assure you, I am quite capable. And most certainly willing.”

Whether it was the security of his carriage, or some other foolish sense of honor the doctor found his voice. “The King will hear of this,” he retorted angrily.

“The King will certainly hear of this, that I assure you.” Athos noted that Sébastien had moved back from the carriage and was attempting to hide a grin. “He will hear all about how you mistreated and offended his majesty’s personal guard and found yourself above the station of the men King Louis himself trusts the most... I’m sure he’ll be very pleased to hear about such lack of respect.”

The physician fumed, staring at Athos, seemingly uncertain as to just how the King felt regarding his personal guard. Rather than test it further, he wisely grabbed the reins, slapped them upon the horse's backside and soon was little more than a distant memory.

Athos exhaled, exhausted. They could all do with some much deserved rest. Now that the doctor was gone, he only hoped that rest would be forthcoming.

He looked over to where Sébastien waited. “Have you eaten?” The boy gave a small shake of his head. “Then come,” he held out an arm beckoning the lad who hastened to his side immediately. The swordsman draped the arm across his shoulders. “Lets get you fed.”

Athos and Sébastien entered the grand house, immediately noticing d’Artagnan, arms crossed, leaning against the door jamb, managing somehow to look both pleased with himself and annoyed. The source of his annoyance lay just inside the grand room, taking up residence behind the ornately scrolled surface; Aramis sat where Athos himself had been moments before, smiling across the table at Porthos, who now sat where d’Artagnan had been, leaning back, a grin spread across his face.

 

Athos frowned, summoning one of the loitering servants. He pushed Sebastien toward her. “Take him to the kitchens. Give him whatever he likes and if he should request anything, see to it he has that too. Understood?”

The girl curtsied. “Right away, monsieur.” She looked at the boy, a small smile on her face. “Come young man, we’ll see you fed proper.”

Sébastien looked questioningly at Athos who in turn pressed a hand into the boy’s back, gently encouraging him to follow. “Run along,” he urged glancing at the office. “I will not be far if you need me.”

It was only then the lad nodded and followed the young lady, the pair disappearing through a sitting area toward the back of the house. Athos watched them go until the rumble of Porthos’ laughter drew his attention toward the office. He walked up and stood next to d’Artagnan.

“What is going on?” he inquired of the younger man.

“I’m not certain, but I get the distinct impression we’ve been played.”

Athos groaned and stalked into the opulent office, d’Artagnan hot on his heels, and came to a stop at one end of the desk, his stern gaze shifting from Porthos to Aramis and back again. Whatever enjoyment they’d shared prior to his arrival, slipped from their faces as neither man seemed ready to meet his gaze…

“What are you doing out of bed?” he asked, his gaze landing expectantly on Aramis. “If you are to recover, you must rest.”

“I am resting well enough right here,” Aramis snapped peevishly. “Besides, I wanted to see for myself the facts surrounding the Marquis.” He waved a hand over the piles of papers and books on the desk. “And what would possess him to hire a monster like Geroux.”

Athos nodded but he wasn’t completely satisfied, nor was he amused to find their still recovering friend up and around. He swiveled his head to pin Porthos with an accusatory gaze. “And you… you helped him down here?”

“Of course I did. He was determined to make the trip with or without me so I figured it best he make it in one piece.”

Athos sighed. “Then you should have thrown him on the bed and sat on him.”

“You know,” Aramis chimed in, “ _he_ is right here—”

“Right,” Porthos glared at the swordsman, ignoring Aramis comment, “because me sittin’ on ‘im would’ve been a great help to his injuries.”

Athos stood and pinched the bridge of his nose, the earlier threat of headache finally taking root. “So was any of that theatre with the doctor authentic?” In the face of his direct question, both men had the decency to shift uncomfortably beneath his withering gaze, though for Aramis, the shift lasted as long as the first twinge of pain before he stilled

“Of course it was,” Aramis gave him a somewhat dark look. “He insulted Porthos. Said a man of his ‘ _breeding_ ’ shouldn’t be anywhere near a nobleman’s finery.”

Athos exhaled loudly and dropped his head between his shoulders. It made sense now. One had only to slander Porthos for the color of his skin to get on Aramis truly irate side. The physician’s ability to walk from the house was merely due to Aramis’ incapacity to make that walk more of a limp, minus some teeth, and possibly a broken bone or two. So, in the end, he supposed he should be grateful the man left intact, shy of a little wounded pride.

“It wasn’t that bad…” Porthos rolled his eyes, but his manner of speaking was somewhat uneasy. “You always make far more out of these things than I do.”

“He deserved a good kick in his pompous, over-indulgent, maximus gluteus," Aramis said sourly, removing the cork on a small brown bottle sitting before him on the desk. "I’m only sorry I could not oblige.”

“My hero…” Porthos teased, grinning, though the appreciation in his eyes softened the mocking words.

Athos nodded at the bottle as Aramis picked it up off the desk, obviously preparing to drink it. “What is that?” he asked.

Porthos chuckled. “The doctor was so eager to leave," he explained as Aramis put the container to his lips and took a quick swig, "he forgot many of his medicines.”

Aramis lowered the bottle and made a strained face. "Only slightly less piquant than the tea I concocted."

"Slightly?" Porthos chuckled. "That makes it a hundred fold better."

Aramis rolled his eyes before fixing his glassy gaze on Athos. "So our beloved physician is well and truly gone, I take it?"

“He is,” Athos assured, looking curiously at the bottle before addressing his friends. “And his pockets were as empty then as they were when he arrived,” he added with a smirk, one that Aramis and Porthos echoed, like a great joke between them. “A fact for which he intends to complain to the King, rather vociferously, as much as I tried to persuade him otherwise.”

“Then we’ve nothing to worry about,” Porthos added. “So long as Louis’ still hid away in his apartments, worried about the plague.” He chortled suddenly. “I’d like to see the twit spit-roasted by the queen if he whines to her.” The three of them shared a chuckle, though Athos noticed the younger Musketeer seemed less amused.

“Wait a moment,” D’Artagnan finally interrupted, looking at Porthos and Aramis, their humor cut short when the latter held his side and hissed. His gaze going back to the swordsman suspiciously. “You… weren’t in on this were you?”

“Of course not,” Athos maintained sternly before shrugging. “Thought I had my suspicions,” he said maintaining a mask of innocence. “One can never tell with these two.”

The Gascon flapped his arms in exasperation. “Well, next time clue me in instead of letting me get all worked up.”

“You’re more fun when you’re all worked up,” Porthos said around laughter that nearly had him doubled over. Aramis smiled, big and broad since anything more proved immediately regrettable.

D’Artagnan glared mildly at the larger man. “I thought you were going to kill the doctor.”

“Oh,” Aramis began, “Porthos wouldn’t do that.” His eyes twinkled as he looked from the Gascon to his friend. “Would you, mon ami?”

“Well,” Porthos caught his breath, his face tightening up somewhat, “he did get mighty pushy with those leeches.”

Aramis hummed in agreement. “He did at that.” he finished before taking another sip of the tonic, while keeping one hand on his side to brace it against the movement. It did little good if appearances were anything to go by.

“Are you certain you aren't taking too much of that?”

“Rubbish," the marksman shook his head. "It's a curative I am familiar with, should help with the pain and fever. Now,” he exhaled, pressed his back into the plush chair and blinked slowly at the swordsman. “What have you found out about our badly behaved, now deceased Marquis?”

Athos hesitated, studying his recovering friend. Still altogether too pale and unsteady judging by the way he held the vile, the swordsman was of a mind to order him back up those stairs and into bed but knew it would do little good. Porthos on the other hand, watched him closely, but even he knew when it was better to placate Aramis’ stubborn nature, and work toward a more peaceable outcome. Though even he had his limits.

Athos picked up a journal and placed it before Aramis who seemed content to remain motionless and allow the swordsman to explain instead. “Geroux’s employer, as it turns out, was not the true Marquis.”

“So... not a nobleman?” Porthos queried.

“Actually, he was.” D’Artagnan added. He’d worked his way over to stand near the desk and picked up a letter he’d read earlier. “His name was Jean Pierre d’Évreux and he was the second son of the actual Marquis and owner of this estate.”

Aramis looked from d’Artagnan to Athos. “I sense a ‘but’ here…”

“Indeed,” Athos offered. “According to the staff and the letters we found, there is an older brother.”

“François d’Évreux,” d’Artagnan put in, “who is away, on pilgrimage seeking to enlighten himself and make his peace with God before returning to take up his father’s title and duties as Marquis as the patriarch planned after his death.” He pointed to a stack of letters that apparently supported that portion of the story.

“François, it would seem, had his own dreams of joining the church, but having had the misfortune of being born first, he could not. The younger brother had no such claims, and felt he was more deserving and better suited to the role of Marquis. From this letter here,” Athos said, picking up a wrinkled piece of paper, “it would seem like he even went as far as offering his brother to trade up, to become the ‘first born’, leaving François free to do as he pleased.”

“And the brother said no,” Aramis ventured.

“The brother said no,” d’Artagnan confirmed. “And so, upset and defiant, Jean Pierre started spending more time in the local village, met Geroux and the man seemed to play to all his feelings of being wronged and encouraged him to take power for himself.”

“So, he killed his father?” Porthos surmised. Athos and d’Artagnan confirmed and he shook his head “Yeah, that’s one way of doin’ it.”

“He planned to do the same to his brother once he returned to port. Though I imagine Geroux would have done the majority of the dirty work. Then he’d be the legitimate heir and no one would say otherwise.”

Porthos caught Athos’ attention and inclined his head toward their wounded friend on the other side of the desk. Aramis’ eyes were drifting closed and his head was tilting back to rest against the tall back of the chair, only to shoot upward when he managed to realize his mistake.

“C’mon then,” Porthos stood and dropped the papers on the desk. “You. Bed. Let’s go.” he walked around the desk and placed a hand on Aramis’ arm. “Doctor’s orders, remember?”

“Yes well,” Aramis move his arm from beneath Porthos’ hold, “he also said I was to be bled. Are we suddenly changing our opinion on his decision making?”

“Aramis,” Athos offered, “I want all of us ready to leave here in two days’ time. There is much to be done in Paris and if you are not recovered enough to sit astride, I will borrow one of the Marquis’ wagons and load you in it in order to travel.”

The marksman looked appalled. “I will not be shuttered into the back of a wagon like some feeble old woman.”

“Then take Porthos’ offer of assistance and get. Back. To bed.”

Eyes snapping, Aramis looked no more willing to surrender than before. He opened his mouth to say as much when there was a knock at the main door. Conversation ended and Athos, no longer accustomed to having servants cater to his every whim, got half way across the office before the maid who’d taken Sébastien off to the kitchens scurried around the corner and opened the door.

Familiar voices drifted into the foyer and Athos looked at Porthos who was now standing, facing him. The maid glanced at the swordsman quickly before ushering their visitors inside. Renard stepped through first, followed closely by Colette They were immediately shown to the office.

The pair smiled and walked cautiously into the opulent room, clearly uncomfortable with the grandeur around them. Athos knew the moment Colette spied Aramis, her soft smile turning radiant as she moved more swiftly to catch up with the tavern keeper. The swordsman would have rolled his eyes at the obvious and predictable attraction but the girl’s presence presented a solution he’d not considered and he hastened to greet and make them feel welcome at the center of the room.

Athos shook Renard’s hand, glancing at Colette only briefly; he’d allow their attraction; it played nicely into his newly formed plan. “It is good to see you up and around, monsieur.”

The tavern keeper nodded. “Only just but I am on the mend. Colette, however, would not hear of me riding just yet so I suffered the indignity of a wagon ride, thanks to the loan from Antoine, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I do not mean to intrude but I hoped to collect my nephew?”

Athos nodded. “Naturally,” he turned to d’Artagnan and motioned him over. “D’Artagnan will show you to the kitchens where Sébastien is eating his fill.”

Renard smiled. “The lad could do with a bit of fattening up, but mind you, he’ll eat you out of house and home.”

“Well, ‘tis neither my house nor my home, so I urge you both to do your worst.”

“Merci,” the tavern keeper nodded.

“Come monsieur,” D’Artagnan placed a hand on Renard’s shoulder. “I will take you to your nephew, and regale you with his heroism in battle.”

“In battle?” the tavern keeper’s face went from surprised to beaming. “He was of some use I take it?”

“Invaluable.”

Left alone with Colette in their midst, Athos’ gaze traveled to the young lady, her flushed cheeks having nothing to do with him as he turned to find Aramis returning her gaze, a soft smile on his face. Clued in to their silent conversation, Porthos looked between them before rolling his eyes; it wasn’t until Aramis made to rise, his movement wobbly and face blanching, that he intervened and took him by the arm to steady him upward.

“Oh!” Colette moved with great speed and determination around Athos and over to Aramis’ other side. “Should you be out of bed?” she asked taking his other arm. “You look frightfully pale.”

The marksman looked droopily at her. “Perhaps not, but I was hoping to convince my friends to divert our journey home with a quick stop at your village. You see, I felt quite guilty having left you all in the hands of those devils.”

“Don’t be silly. You tried to lead them away from us even injured. It was dashing and heroic.”

Porthos exhaled an exasperated puff of air through puffed cheeks, his gaze tracking upward. Aramis noticed his change in demeanor immediately. “Well, I wouldn’t have survived without my friend here.”

Colette glanced at him. “Of course, you were both just trying to help us and we appreciate it more than you know.”

“Yes,” Athos sauntered over toward them, adopting a serious tone. “When I found them, they were both nearly exhausted beyond recovery,” he continued, fighting to keep his tone dire. “With such injuries, Aramis should be abed but he refuses. His concern for others far outweighs his concern for himself. That is our Aramis.”

Porthos looked curiously at Athos, not at all certain where this was headed. Even Aramis cut a quick, squinted gaze to him, not necessarily approving of the method but easily accepting the possible urgings and attention of a beautiful woman.

“Oh my,” Colette lifted his arm and draped it across her shoulder, “then you simply must get back to bed. Allow me?” With little more than a gentle tug, she maneuvered the marksman carefully around the desk, Porthos following to make certain she could handle his considerable weight

“Yes, well, now that you mention it,” Aramis looked woozily at the young lady— Athos felt certain there was little device in his drugged countenance. “I could do with some rest. Though… it feels terribly lonely up there...”

“Of course,” she responded, batting her eyes coquettishly at him. “Though if you’re not too tired, we could finish our earlier conversation at the tavern. Or I could just lay beside you and keep you company.”

Porthos grunted, about to make known his feelings on the matter when Athos placed a hand on his chest, stopping him. Aramis and Colette continued alone, the marksman not putting his full weight on the girl as they moved slowly up the steps.

“I think I should love having company,” Aramis responded, wincing in well-rehearsed pain. “To distract me from my many and grievous wounds, you see...”

Porthos looked from the hand on his chest to the swordsman. “Thought you said he needed rest.”

“He does,” Athos turned, watching them continue up the stairs. “And that tonic he drank will likely leave room for little else. He’ll be asleep before his head hits the pillow… be that of feathers or any other sort.”

“Yeah,” Porthos snorted. Then he looked suspiciously at Athos. “Don’t suppose you had anything to do with them showing up like that?”

“I have no inkling of what you speak of.” Athos walked to a small table in the corner and poured two glasses from a fancy crystal decanter and held one out to Porthos. “I _may have_ requested Antoine go to the village and let the innkeeper know his nephew was well and with us here. The girl arriving with him was fortuitous,” Athos took a sip, “but quite unplanned.”

“But not wholly unexpected,” Porthos glowered, looking down at his glass and noticing it wasn’t but half full.

“Well, this _is_ Aramis we are talking about…”

“Yeah.” Porthos looked at the swordsman and chuckled. “I know. But I don’t think she’ll be too happy when he falls asleep on her.”

“I doubt the young lady will mind; she seems the type to keep a vigil by his side, willing to protect the wounded hero while he sleeps.”  He grimaced at his own words, the very idea of Aramis needing anyone's protection as preposterous as it sounded. “She, in fact, may be precisely what he needs.

“Eh?” Porthos looked at him curiously.

“Dear Porthos, do you know of anyone more capable of keeping Aramis in bed than a warm, willing woman?”

Porthos chuckled. “Guess not,” he said before raising his glass in salute and downing the contents in one swig. Athos’ eyes widened in horror at the handling of such an expensive liquor. “Good stuff,” the larger man sighed smacking his lips. He looked appreciatively at the glass before extending it for a refill. “Wouldn’t mind another, only uh, don’t be so stingy, yeah?”

Athos hesitated only a moment before one side of Athos face tipped up in a smile. He didn’t know what he’d expected, perhaps a moment of appreciation but then… in the end, this was better. It mocked the very life spent in luxury and the too high importance placed on finer things, so he tipped the bottle and poured him another, this time filling the glass near the rim.

When their glasses were empty, Athos eyed his friend as he refilled his glass once more. “I… I wish to thank you.”

“For what?” Porthos froze, glass midway to his lips.

“For saving Aramis’ life,” Athos answered thoughtfully, knowing that the big man knew him well enough to read his words as gratitude, not some personal affront to his skill and resourcefulness. “For keeping him— keeping you both alive.”

Porthos studied him carefully. “You were really worried, weren’t you?”

Athos exhaled in relief, remembering the gut-churning sensation that had consumed his insides from the moment he had realized his brothers were in trouble to the second he managed to find them. “Not really… well, except for the part where you pointed your pistol at me.”

“Wait. I pulled a weapon on you? How come I don’t remember that?”

“You were a little out of your head at the time, if I recall.” Athos grinned, seeing a chance to lighten things. “But don’t worry,” he grabbed the crystal decanter and refilled Porthos drink, “I would have stabbed you before you shot me.”

Porthos head jerked up. “How would that have helped anyone?”

“Well, it would’ve helped me not get shot,” He raised his glass, his eyes dancing but with an air of seriousness. “To win without risk is a triumph without glory.”

Athos nodded in agreement. “Here, here,” he touched his glass to Porthos’ and together they drank. The swordsman took small sips—he simply could not bring himself to butcher his palate—while the larger man predictably downed the glass in one pull.

“That’s enough for me,” Porthos set the glass down and patted his stomach. “I’m starved. Think I’ll wander into the kitchens and get me some food ‘fore d’Artagnan and the rest eat it all. You comin’?”

“I doubt even they could manage that,” Athos said, setting his glass on the table next to Porthos’. “But I shall come, in case you need any assistance in parting the young ones from the pantry.”

Porthos nodded and they moved on in companionable silence, neither of them really in a hurry. “You know, d’Artagnan was right…” he said, looking pensive.

Athos glanced at him. “About…?

“Sébastien. The boy showed grit out there. He was invaluable in that fight.”

Athos nodded slowly, unsure of where Porthos’ line of thought was heading. “No doubt, though utterly terrified.”

“Ah, we all were at one time or another, especially starting out. That’ll pass in time.”

Athos frowned. “What are you getting at?”

“Just wonderin’ if Renard would be open to letting the boy come back with us to Paris.  To the Garrison.”

Athos stopped. Porthos continued another two steps before realizing he was alone and turned to gaze at him questioningly.

“To what end?”

“To become a Musketeer, of course,” Porthos said as if it were painfully obvious.

“Porthos,” Athos paused, needing a moment to be sure he’d heard correctly. “He is eleven.”

“Well, not right away.” The big man walked over to make his case. “He’d be an apprentice. He’d work in the stables- he’s already shown he knows his way around horses. Then when he’s old enough...”

Athos squinted at him, abandoning all hopes that this was merely the wine talking. “You are serious.”

“Of course.”

“You seem to forget that he already made it abundantly clear that ours was not the life for him.”

“Ah,” Porthos dismissed the statement with a wave of his hand, “that’ll change once he gets a taste of the life. The brotherhood.”

“And what do you suppose will happen if the next King decides to disband the Musketeers? He’d be adrift, with no one.”

“He’d have us. “

“Presuming we are all still living.”

“Fine! Then, _if_ that happens, he could go back to working with horses,” Porthos countered, clearly having given the matter more thought than Athos initially presumed. “It’s not like he wouldn’t still know how.”

Athos sighed, utterly exhausted with this conversation. “No,” he said flatly. He resumed the trek to the kitchen, Porthos in step beside him.

“No? Why not?”

“Porthos, my friend,” Athos stopped and place his hands on the bigger man’s shoulders. “I have known you a lifetime. You have a big heart that beckons you to take in every stray that you find, every lost soul in this life. The boy has friends and family. He is not lost.”

“I do not take in strays,” he replied with what might have been called a pout, were it not for the power and strength behind his crossed arms. “When have I ev—”

“Aramis. At the garrison,” he said and having made his point, Athos dropped his hand and strode away confidently. “After Savoy.”

“No,” Porthos shook his head and easily closed the distance between them. “He was already a Musketeer, so he doesn’t count.”

“D’Artagnan, after his father’s death,” Athos countered.

“He’d just helped us save your sorry hide!” Porthos waged a finger at him. “It was the right thing to do!”

 _Myself when I first arrived at the Garrison._ Athos did not dare voice the thought. “And now Sébastien.”

Porthos smirked knowingly. “You got to admit, he’d make a fine Musketeer.”

“In another life perhaps.”

_**Fin**_

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: “To win without risk is a triumph without glory.” This is a quote from Pierre Corneille, a French writer from the 1600s. He’s actually more of a play-writer but I allowed as Aramis, over the span of their friendship, had encouraged Porthos accompany him to a play or two. 
> 
> Thank you all for indulging me on this little journey. You’ve made me feel very welcome and warm inside. I have a couple of big bangs in this fandom to get to work on next, so if you’ll excuse me, I shall see you next time!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Brother's Keeper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7177019) by [Adrenalineshots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots)




End file.
